IllGotten Goods
by Taa
Summary: Sokka is captured by the Fire Nation, tortured, raped, and later rescued. Mild heterosexual and strong homosexual non-con, rape, and violence. Set during the series finale. Sokka/Suki, Sokka/Azula, Sokka/Ozai. First chapter fairly mild, later chapters more explicit.
1. The Replacement Prisoner

**REPLIES TO UNSIGNED REVIEWS OF CHAPTER ONE:**

**Cupcake:** Thank you!

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**26 August 2012:** Chapter three posted.

**7 April 2011:** Chapter two posted.

**28 May 2010****:** Chapter one posted.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Hello, everyone! Thank you, sincerely, for reading and reviewing! This is the first real fanfiction I ever decided to write, and because of the subject matter, it was a very frightening but important decision for me, so your positivity and well-wishes have been very much valued. :)

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

-Taa

**For progress reports between chapters, please go to:** fanfiction dot net/forum/IllGotten_Goods_The_Forum/110789/

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**Title:** Ill-Gotten Goods

**Legit Pairings:** Sokka/Suki

**Non-con Pairings:** Sokka/Azula, Sokka/Ozai

**Rating:** M

**Summary:** Shortly after Sokka and Zuko rescue Hakoda and Suki from the Boiling Rock, Sokka falls once again into the clutches of the Fire Nation. He is handed over to Azula who later presents him as an offering to her father. Meanwhile, Suki and the Gaang have to figure out how to get Sokka back without ruining their plans to overthrow the Fire Lord.

**POV:** Sokka

**Predicted Length:** five chapters

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Chapter One: The Replacement Prisoner

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_This is incredibly ironic,_ Sokka thought grimly as he was thrown into a prison cell. It was only days ago that he'd rescued his dad and Suki from a Fire Nation prison, and now he'd become a prisoner himself. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees, hissing as the cut he'd gotten earlier scraped against the dirt. He would have tried to catch himself, but his hands were cuffed behind his back. Instead, he just rolled onto his side to relieve the pain. As he lay there, the Fire Nation soldiers who'd captured him slammed the barred door closed, and the ringing of metal sent a shiver through the back of his neck. He shuddered through it and rolled over to face forward.

As the soldiers locked his cell, Sokka glared at them, but as soon as they were gone, he was scanning the ceiling for signs of Suki. Hopefully she was still aboveground. If she had any sense at all, she'd leave him behind, go back to the others, and move the group away from here before a search party of Fire Nation soldiers could discover their camp site. There were too many soldiers down here for her to take on herself. If she wanted to rescue him, she should come back with reinforcements.

Thankfully, nothing indicated that Suki had tried to follow him. The mouth of the tunnel he had fallen through was just an empty hole in the cavern wall, and the only people he saw roaming around were fully-armored Fire Nation soldiers. If Suki had come in after him, there would have been a commotion similar to the scuffle Sokka had caused, but since the atmosphere in the cave had returned to relative calm, he doubted Suki was inside. Good.

Sokka climbed to his feet, limping slightly from the gash in his knee. It had been torn open by the tunnel, and now blood was soaking through his pant leg. He scowled and pressed his face against the bars.

With Suki safe, he could try to analyze the situation. He and Suki had been on a walk together when they came across a cave in the hillside. Sokka had stepped in to explore it a bit and was surprised to smell brimstone in the air. He was even more surprised when the rock floor suddenly gave way beneath him and sent him tumbling through a jagged metal hole and into a crowd of Fire Nation soldiers fifteen feet below. Judging by the look of things, this cavern was some kind of secret Fire Nation bunker. He could only now get a good look at it since, when he'd first arrived, he had been too preoccupied trying to fend off a gang attack.

Looking back, he was ashamed of the pathetic fight he'd put up, but with the shock of the fall, the gash in his leg, and the general bumping and bruising he'd gotten from his method of entry, he'd been understandably a bit uncoordinated. The soldiers had easily overpowered him and quickly clapped him in chains. They'd also robbed him of his boomerang and sword.

Sokka angrily kicked the bars of his cell. Just then, a soldier barked a command at him.

"Stand back, there!"

Sokka looked up just in time to see a whip of flame heading his way.

"Whoa!" he yelped, retreating to the back wall. The flames licked the bars of his cell, and when they cleared, an officer was standing there, leering in at him.

"You're one of the Avatar's friends," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Sokka retorted. "A bit far from home, aren't you?"

The officer ignored him. "Tell us where the others are, and we'll spare your life."

"Yeah, right," Sokka said. He hesitated a moment. "I don't know where they are, anyway. I haven't seen them lately."

The officer looked unimpressed. "Come now. If _one_ of you is hanging around, the rest can't be far behind."

"Yeah, you'd think so," Sokka countered skillfully, "but not this time. I got separated from them a while back. I've been looking for them, too; so if you find them, let me know." He tried to act nonchalant, to make his lie convincing.

"Hm," the officer said. He turned to a soldier at his side. "See if you can confirm his story. Take a few men and sweep the area. If youfind anyone, send word back, and we'll mount an attack." The soldier nodded and went away.

"You're wasting your time," Sokka warned. "Think about it. Why would any of us _voluntarily_ wander off alone? If we did," he added with emphasis, "we might be _captured_ by the _Fire Nation_." He slumped moodily to the floor. "As you can see."

The officer snorted dismissively and left.

Alone, Sokka glanced around his cell, looking for any chinks or structural weaknesses that could be exploited. Unfortunately, the place seemed airtight—not that he had predicted differently. So instead, he directed his attention to the soldiers milling about before him. He watched for indications of hierarchy and routines, thinking that his escape may have to rely on scheduled trickery rather than invisible sneakery, but as he watched, all he detected was a general air of undirected energy. The soldiers seemed to be simply killing time. This puzzled him. Why would the Fire Nation be stationed in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do?

He thought about this for a while but had come to no conclusion by the time the search party returned. They'd found no one. Sokka breathed a sigh of relief, proudly satisfied with Suki. She must have warned the others and gotten them to safety, just as he'd hoped.

"All right, then," the officer spoke again, calling to the group. "Let's clear out!"

"What?" Sokka asked out loud. "We're _leaving_?" Well, that would explain the lack of activity; but it would also complicate any potential rescue attempts.

A few minutes later, a pair of guards manhandled Sokka into the brig of an airship. It turned out the underground bunker had an outlet to a nearby cliff face, making the Fire Nation's departure quick and clean. As the ships sailed off toward the horizon, Sokka crouched alone in the darkness, desperately trying to wring his wrists out of his shackles. Apparently, if he was going to get out of this mess, he would have to do it on his own.

A few hours later, Sokka was aching all over and getting depressed. The space he was being kept in was cramped and cold—nothing but a few-foot-deep recess under the airship sub-deck—and he hadn't made any progress toward escape. He'd worn holes into his gloves by trying to loose the shackles, and if he kept at it, he would soon be rubbing his skin clean off. He might have considered breaking his thumb to squeeze through had that not meant he'd have to make the rest of his escape with only one useful hand. Dire as his situation was, he wasn't quite ready to resort to drastic measures yet. Besides, he must have been a thousand or more feet in the air. He'd be better off waiting until they reached solid land again.

By the time the airship finally touched down, Sokka was miserably numb, having been unable to move freely or find a comfortable position the whole time they'd been travelling. He was also in quite a bitter mood. He promised himself that the next Fire Nation soldier he saw he would kick in the face. He never got his opportunity though, because when the guards came at last to retrieve him, he was immediately blinded by sunlight after having spent so long in the dark, and when they yanked him out onto the cargo ramp, he couldn't even stand. The guards had to haul him down to ground level as Sokka struggled to make his tingling legs move.

The first thing that happened when he'd gotten his senses back was that he was made to change into a prisoner's tunic and trousers. All of his own clothing was confiscated; the only things he retained were his wolf tail and his pride. After that, he was led into a holding cell and left to mingle with a handful of other prisoners.

Being back with a group of people lifted his spirits a bit because escape plans, he knew, were more easily executed by teams. With this thought in mind, he stifled a grin as the Fire Nation soldiers locked the bars behind him. He wasn't exactly ready to formulate a strategy yet—not that he could say much, anyway, in the presence of the surrounding guards—but he _did_ make a point of chatting up a couple earthbenders in preparation. He found out from them that this was a Fire Nation military base stationed in the Earth Kingdom. These prisoners had been taken after the fall of Ba Sing Se, and Sokka was the only non-Earth Kingdom prisoner they knew of.

He was unable to learn much more, though, because not long after being dropped off, a pair of soldiers returned to retrieve him again.

"You. Water Tribe boy," one of them called. "You're coming with us."

The other soldier was showing a document to one of the guards. "Princess Azula commands that all members of the Avatar's party be brought to her chambers directly," he said.

Sokka's heart dropped. Azula commanded this base? There was something very unsettling about that thought. He and the others had been too long on the wrong end of her manipulative attacks, and lately that situation had developed in him a bitter and personal hatred of her. He was sick of Azula destroying his plans and sick of watching her hurt innocent people. Their past few encounters had only deepened their animosity, and Sokka wondered if she might not have a score to settle with him.

A bad thought struck him: as a warrior, he'd face her any day—but as a _prisoner_? That made his stomach turn. Being in Azula's presence—surrounded by her guards, under her control, unarmed and unable to fight—seemed potentially very dangerous, especially considering how serious the war had gotten recently. He didn't like where this was going.

He fought against the knot in his stomach as the guards forced him into a new pair of cuffs. He tried to keep a level head; despite his well-placed apprehension, he knew there was nothing he could do in this situation. He would just have to suck it up and not let Azula see even a flicker of weakness in him. He would get through this meeting and then turn his attention back to escaping.

The guards led him to a windowless interrogation room in a basement wing. But instead of sitting him down to wait for Azula, one guard surprised him by grabbing him by the wrists and unlocking the handcuffs they'd just put him in. Sokka was understandably taken aback, but he quickly realized what was going on: the guards planned to re-shackle him to another pair of handcuffs which were suspended mid-room at waist level from the ceiling.

His stomach dropped. Being handcuffed in Azula's presence was terrifying enough; being handcuffed _in place_ was unthinkable. With a sharp feeling of dread overtaking him, he made a sudden, opportunist change of plan and beat back the guard who'd just loosed his hands, making a mad, slightly panicked, dash for the door.

He'd barely reached the threshold, though, when the other guard tackled him, bringing them both crashing to the floor. Sokka fought for his life, twisting and punching the guard to break free, but the first guard had recovered himself and joined in as well, landing a few punches on Sokka in an attempt to help his comrade. But still Sokka fought, and when he proved too unruly for even _both_ guards to handle, two more guards were called in to help get him under control.

Each guard took one of his limbs, and Sokka angrily shouted profanities at them as he was hefted into the air. With a little effort, they managed to get both his wrists restrained before him and locked securely into the irons. Soundly defeated, Sokka gave up his fight and struggled only half-heartedly to wring himself free. Then the thing happened which he'd been dreading most: the guards worked a pulley which lifted his cuffs higher toward the ceiling until his arms were fully extended above him and he was only barely able to support his weight on the floor. Left in this horribly vulnerable position, he could do nothing but watch as the guards left him behind and filed brusquely out of the room.

The slamming of the door cleared the room of all sound until the only things that broke the silence were the crackling torches on either side of the door and his own pulse, drumming in his throat. He took some deep breaths, trying to still his heart, cursing himself for getting so worked up over a sloppy escape attempt that was destined to fail. He had to calm down before Azula arrived; it wouldn't look good if he was still in a panic.

He was starting to get his head back by the time Her Majesty opened the door. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to grant her even the decency of turning his head her direction. Azula seemed amused. She serenely returned his gaze as she made her way to a single chair at the other end of the room.

"_Sokka_," she said, taking a seat and crossing her legs. "How nice to see you again." Sokka just glared from between his biceps. "You have impeccable timing, you know. My soldiers tell me they hadn't been in the cavern bunker more than twenty minutes before you dropped in." She couldn't quite contain the grin that crept out onto her lips. "Imagine. Had you happened by just five or ten minutes later, you and I wouldn't be chatting right now. Funny how fate works, isn't it?"

"What's with the cavern, anyway?" Sokka asked bluntly. "Getting scared and hiding underground or what?"

"Ha. Hardly," Azula said. "I'm just collecting a few documents and such I've left scattered here and there. Bending scrolls, uniforms, maps, that sort of thing. Nothing much, really, but one never knows what may prove important later on." She brushed a stray bit of hair behind her ear, looking annoyed. "I find I have to be more careful with who I entrust things to these days. My ranks have recently become infested with _traitors_, and I wouldn't want my things falling into the wrong hands." She said this with a scowl directly pointedly at him.

Sokka knew she was referring to the two girls who'd used to accompany her. He'd seen at the Boiling Rock how they'd turned against Azula, letting Sokka and Zuko escape with the others. Clearly their betrayal still weighed heavy on her mind. But knowing how cool and collected Azula liked to appear, it troubled him somehow that she would so freely offer up that information to him now.

Azula rose and approached him. Sokka narrowed his eyes.

"Of course, I don't need to tell _you_ about that," she went on. "You've already gotten a good deal out of my _brother's_ treachery. That was some stunt you pulled at the Boiling Rock." She stopped just in front him, staring him down. "I know it was you who did the masterminding, of course, because Zuzu simply doesn't have the backbone or the cunning to organize a break-out." She glanced him over derisively. "Impressive, actually, for a peasant who can't even bend." Then she smiled. "You must be so _proud_ of yourself."

Sokka clenched his fists but said nothing.

Azula paused. "I suppose it was all for the benefit of that Kyoshi girl, hm? You just had to prove to yourself that you could play the hero like she'd hoped."

Sokka flushed uncomfortably. Actually, he'd only gone to the Boiling Rock to rescue his father, but now that he thought about it, why _hadn't_ he tried to rescue Suki first? Azula had even _told_ him she was relying on Sokka to save her. He was suddenly stricken with guilt. What a callous jerk he was.

"Well," Azula went on, seeming a bit annoyed at Sokka's continued silence, "since you managed to get _her_, I suppose I'll just have to take _you_. It's not really a fair trade, mind you, since she was a skilled warrior and you're just a nobody, but I guess I'll have to make due. What do you think? Can you make up for her, Sokka?"

Oh, he _hated_ when she said his name. Furious, he lifted himself from the ground and kicked her away from him. Azula stumbled back, looking sincerely surprised. Apparently she wasn't used to prisoners fighting back.

"Why, you disrespectful leech!" she balked. She threw a fireball at him, striking him squarely in the chest so hard it was as if he'd been clubbed. He'd cried out in alarm, but as the ball struck, the wind was knocked out of him, pitching him forward in a stunned kind of pain. He coughed breathlessly and felt his heart skip a few beats. The force of the blow had caused more damage than the flames had, but it was a blessing for which he was only partly grateful.

"I do not tolerate insolence," Azula hissed. "You are my captive now, and you will show me respect."

"Sorry," Sokka grunted, able to breathe again, "but my respect for the Fire Nation is running a little low lately."

"Is it? Then I'm sure I can restore some for you."

"Unlikely," he snorted.

"Oh, _Sokka_," she cackled. "I'm surprised you would underestimate me. I was actually beginning to think you might have some brains in that low-born skull of yours. But I see now that I was mistaken." She sneeringly formed a fire dagger in her hand. "I have methods, you know. If there's one thing in this world I'm good at, it's earning respect."

She thrust the edge of the dagger up under Sokka's chin. He shrank back, startled, pulling away from the heat. Azula's face was twisted in anger.

"You seem to forget," she growled at him, "that you're here to repay a debt to me." Sokka craned his neck nervously, taking in breath as Azula pressed the fire to his throat.

He hadn't realized that she was capable of exerting this much control over her firebending. The dagger felt as sharp and solid as a steel blade, and even though it was searingly hot, it wasn't actually burning him. He turned his eyes forward and met a ferocious gaze.

"You robbed me of one or two particularly valuable prisoners," she said, "so unfortunately, you have a lot to make up for." She drew the knife down and pressed the tip into the pocket of his collarbone. Sokka held his breath, waiting. "But perhaps you don't quite understand the inconvenience of having things taken from you. Please, allow me to _educate_ you."

She moved the dagger down, but rather than cutting him or plunging it into his neck, she carefully inserted it into his shirtfront and began slowly burning a cut down the middle of his tunic.

Sokka blinked and pulled back suddenly, taken by surprise. What was she doing? He tried to get away, but Azula conjured a fireball in her free hand as a warning to cooperate. Sokka took the hint but couldn't stifle his dread as, bit by bit, the split down his shirt grew longer and wider. The singed edges of the fabric fell against his skin and stung him with the embers.

With the knife descending past his belly button, he felt himself break into a cold sweat, sick at the thought of being exposed to Azula. She was watching her work with a sort of scientific fascination, carefully studying each new bit of abdomen revealed by the parting cloth. Burning through the last few inches, she put her pinky against his stomach to steady her hand.

Sokka recoiled. "Stop," he said dumbly, but Azula had already retracted the dagger. She looked up at him smiling, bent so low that her face was level with his waist. He looked back down at her, his heart pounding faster. With a glint of mischief in her eye, Azula pushed herself up by her knees and lifted a hand to encourage the embers to bloom into flames. Sokka gasped, watching helplessly as the flames spread up his chest and licked around his sides until the entire tunic was engulfed.

He cried out, panic overtaking him. He had vowed not to lose his composure, but the irrepressible fear of being on fire overpowered his bodily control. He flailed, trying to disentangle himself from the flames. The heat was intense, but Azula bent the fire away from his skin, preventing him from being burned. She continued like this, in calculated control, until the tunic literally disintegrated into ashes around him.

"What are you _doing_?" Sokka demanded, panting in the aftermath. Sweat trickled down his chest and steamed off his skin, which had turned red in the sauna-like heat.

"Feeling more respectful now?" Azula sneered. She held out her palm and produced a new flame. Sokka kicked at her again, but she calmly stepped out of reach.

"This will be easier if you hold still," she said, transferring the flame to the hem of his pants.

He didn't want to listen to her. He stamped on his ankle in an attempt to put it out, but the flames spread anyway, helped by Azula. By the time the fire was up to his knees, he'd discovered she was right. The more he fought, the more he got burned. In order to save himself from serious injury, he had no choice but to stay put.

He stood up rigid, trying not to react, but the crackling blaze climbing up his lower half was unbelievably difficult to ignore. He breathed deep, clenching his jaw and assuring himself he wasn't _actually_ on fire. He tried not to wince every time a spark singed him or a patch of leg hair burned away.

Then, suddenly, his feet seared with pain, and for a moment, he lost his composure: the leather soles of his slippers had begun to sizzle, but the fabric that kept them bound to his feet still had yet to burn through. In a panic, he stumbled over himself, swinging by his wrists as he kicked himself free. By the time he had done, Azula was chuckling quietly at his distress, and the flames of his trousers had moved up to his waist. He panted, trembling wide-eyed at his narrow escape, but the heat surrounding his hips quickly reclaimed his attention.

The fire was moving between his legs, and he tensed because he knew Azula wasn't going to stop. He shut his eyes and stood like stone, dreading each moment the flames burned nearer. Bits of fabric were falling away up the entire length of his legs, flames burning around the edges of ever-growing holes. But now most of the heat was concentrated at his crotch, the only part of his clothes still wholly intact. He waited and waited, hissing now from anxiety whenever an ember would burn into his skin. Time seemed to stretch on forever. Each moment made him sicker, made him ache more with shame.

Finally, the flames were on top of him, terrifying in their nearness despite Azula's bending. He could feel their tongues flickering through the spaces around his groin. He hated it. He was trembling.

When he felt the shield of fabric fall away from his pelvis, he couldn't suppress a tormented shudder. He was naked now, with only a few smoldering strands of fabric still clinging to his hips. But Azula made short work of them when, with a wave of her hand, any stray bits of cloth that hadn't yet surrendered his body exploded into flame and dispersed into the air. Sokka sucked in a breath as the smoke drifted around him. He felt sick to his stomach and uncontrollably afraid.

He stood helplessly before Azula, quivering as steam curled up from his naked body. He had never felt so exposed or humiliated. His skin stung, his eyes burned, and he glistened with sweat. He saw Azula standing there grinning at him, and he couldn't even tolerate keeping his eyes open anymore. He turned his head down, eyes shut against his embarrassment, and tried to block out the whole situation.

After a moment, Azula said innocently, "Oh. You're bleeding."

Sokka didn't know what she was talking about and didn't care to respond.

"I can fix that for you," she offered mischievously, and suddenly there was a screaming pain in his knee.

"Agh!" he shouted, jerking alive in agony. He caught a confused glimpse of a blurry orange glow and realized in horror that his knee was on fire! Sokka thrashed and screamed to put it out, and Azula ended it with a flick of her wrist.

"There," she said. "Cauterized." Sokka gasped and coughed. "You're welcome," she added.

Tears leaked from his eyes as his head hung on his chest. Azula had burned into his cut from the cavern, leaving his knee a raw, shining mess. It throbbed with a deep and piercing pain. Stunned and shaking, he turned his eyes up at her.

Had she treated _Suki_ like this when _she_ was in prison? God, he hoped with all his heart not. The thought made him furious and not least of all nauseous. If he ever found out Azula had tortured Suki, he would rip out her throat and never look back.

He scowled lividly, blinking angrily through his tears. Azula was standing there, arms folded, looking vaguely pleased with herself. Her head was cocked slightly to the side. Sokka grunted and spat, and she took a single step back. He watched her for a moment as he caught his breath.

There seemed to be something different about her. The way she stood was somehow looser; the expression in her eyes was just a shade distant. Sokka hadn't picked up on it until just now, but in a flash he realized: this was crazy, even for her.

He concluded then that, no, she _hadn't_ treated Suki like this, because if she had, Suki would have told him. He didn't know whether Kyoshi pride would make Suki normally want to keep something like that to herself, but he _did_ know that a change like this would have been too important to keep secret; knowing about it would have affected the way they strategized against Azula.

It was small comfort for Sokka, knowing Suki had been safe, but this other bit of information was another matter. Azula's behavior now was excessive and unpredictable, beyond what he might have considered military brutality. She seemed unstable and unreasonable, like she was coming unhinged.

He stared at the floor, wondering how worried he should be.

After a while, Azula sighed: "Well, I guess that's enough for today. Excellent lesson. Class dismissed." She turned and calmly left the room, snuffing out the torches as she closed the door.

Sokka shuddered unhappily, wishing his pain would die down, and hung from his chain limply as he waited alone in the darkness.

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End of chapter one.


	2. Giving In

**REPLIES TO UNSIGNED REVIEWS OF CHAPTER TWO:**

**in the pages****:** D8 This is the most amazing, most flattering review you could ever have given me! D8 I'm so sad I can't reply to you directly. ;; Thank you so much!

**Oddly:** Thank you so much for your detailed review! ;; It makes me so happy to hear you appreciate specific aspects and details. ;; Nothing is more pleasant to me than to get thorough feedback. ;; You are so kind! Thank you!

**Sokkaluv:** Thank you so much for being so patient! I'm sorry I don't update quickly! D: But I promise you I will write this to the end! Your enthusiasm pushes me forward! Thank you!

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

I'm so sorry I have _no_ concept of time or deadlines. For all future updates, please be very patient! ;; I have no idea when they'll be posted, only that they _will_ be posted! For progress reports between chapters, please go to: fanfiction dot net/forum/IllGotten_Goods_The_Forum/110789/

Thank you so much to all my reviewers!

I sincerely hope you enjoy this.

-Taa

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Chapter Two: Giving In

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How long had it been? Sokka was in pain. His arms burned, his neck ached, and his feet were tender from standing. Besides which, it was cold; and so dark, and so silent. All the light he had was the line of orange flickering under the door, and all the sound he had was of his own making. For lack of stimulation, he was becoming obsessed with the sounds of his own body: the faint whistle of his breath, the rushing pump of his pulse, and the low, quiet rumble of his periodic shivering. And every now and then he would shift his wrists in his cuffs, and the tinkling of the chain sounded like a ghost.

He tried to keep still, but there was no way to be comfortable. So, repeating what he'd already done countless times before, he stretched on his tiptoes, reaching and grabbing the chain that suspended him. Before, his goal had only been to take off the pressure of hanging from his wrists, but he couldn't achieve it anymore just by standing—his calves and the balls of his feet were too tired and painful to hold him up—so instead, he held onto the chain, supporting himself with his hands alone, giving both his wrists _and_ his feet a rest. But with how frequently he'd done this already and with how long his hands had been overhead, he could hardly even _move_ his arms anymore for the burning. So when he tried to give his hands his weight now, it was only seconds before he was shaking with effort. With a groan of defeat, he collapsed back into his shackles.

He let his toes drag the ground, swinging minutely from his chain. He'd stand up again in a minute, after he caught his breath. Until then, he let his head drop forward. Despite the cold and his shivering, he was actually sweating, fatigued by pain and strain and his inability to do anything about it.

He cursed Azula. Why was she putting him through this? He was unarmed—_naked_—in the basement of a Fire Nation military base; he didn't have any bending abilities; he was _not_ a threat. And he was useless as an informant because there was nothing he could tell her that she didn't already know. If her goal was simply to keep him from escaping, she only had to give him a private cell, because at this point, he was hopeless without the aid of other prisoners. But keeping him chained like this was torture. This didn't make sense.

He felt frustrated and angry, near the edge of a breakdown. All of his hope was gradually dying away. At first, he'd actually thought someone might come for him, that once Azula had had her fun, the guards would come back, let him down, and return him to a cell. But as hours added to hours, he realized this situation was permanent. All he had to look forward to was this room, this chain, these cuffs, this cold, and this embarrassing mess at his feet.

But then, unexpectedly, there were footsteps in the hallway. Sokka lifted his head. He wasn't imagining things again; someone really was coming. And whoever it was wasn't alone; he could pick out two distinct pairs of feet. He stood up and watched the door, anxious about who it might be. A key was turned in the lock, and when the door opened, Sokka had to squint against the brightness of lantern light.

In stepped a pair of girls carrying buckets and cleaning supplies. Sokka blanched. Whatever he had expected, it hadn't been that. As soon as they saw him, he was overcome by a renewed sense of how pathetic and vulnerable he was. He could feel his nakedness under their gaze, could actually feel the warmth of the light falling on his bare skin. He faltered and looked away, reeling with humiliation.

The girls didn't say anything as they set down their supplies; they just lit the torches with a piece of flint and set to cleaning the room in silence. They swept up the charred remains of Sokka's clothes and mopped the mess around his feet. Sokka purposefully stared at the wall while they worked, wishing he could just disappear. But then one of the girls dipped a rag in her bucket and wrung it out over his shoulder, sending a cascade of cold water down his side.

Sokka gasped in surprise, and at the chill. He looked at the girl as she stepped up beside him, but she was pointedly not paying him any attention. She just reached overhead to scrub down one of his arms while the other girl stepped up to duplicate the process on his other side. Descending together in methodical silence, they proceeded to bathe him from top to bottom.

Sokka squirmed under their hands. The touch of two strangers moving simultaneously across his skin felt unbearably invasive, but there was really nothing he could do to stop them. For one, even to acknowledge the situation would be too humiliating, and for another, the girls were only innocent maids—he couldn't exactly fight them off. And compared to the treatment he'd gotten earlier, a sponge bath to remove some soot and grime could almost be considered a kindness. But even that was comfortless justification, because it didn't help him feel any less violated. In ways, this was worse than being stripped by Azula.

When they'd finally finished—having disregarded modesty but at least taken care not to aggravate his scorched knee—one of the girls mopped up the excess water from the floor while the other wrung out a rag to clean his face. Stoic as a statue, she pressed the cloth to his cheeks while Sokka stood waiting, rigid and sober. The careful way she wiped away the soot reminded him of how his mother might have wiped his face when he was little. His stomach turned at the thought, and when the girl pulled the cloth away, he felt infantile and debased. He averted his eyes as the girls collected their things, and when they put out the torches and left the room, he was actually glad to be alone again.

But as the darkness and silence settled back in, he started to feel even more miserable than before. Even regardless of his being wet, he thought the room was getting colder, which could only have meant that another day had ended. If that were true, then he'd already spent an entire day and a half in captivity, and most of it chained right here. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, and hadn't figured out a way to make the misery stop. He just _hurt_, all over, this dull, persistent ache, and being unable to sit, or move, or even to drop his arms was driving him absolutely mad. He tried to relax and embrace the pain, but his body just twitched with discomfort. The only thing he could really do was clench his teeth to keep them from chattering and hope he wouldn't have to endure this much longer.

But a while later, another pair of footsteps came marching down the hall, and Sokka groaned in dread, having no question of who it was this time and no hope that her visit would end in his favor.

Azula opened the door and Sokka looked at her humorlessly. With a wave of her hand, she re-lit the torches, and Sokka closed his eyes to adjust to the light. The torches seemed to burn brighter when Azula lit them. When he looked again, his captor was standing there casually, one hand on the door knob, the other on her hip. She smiled at him mildly; he just stared unhappily back.

"How are you holding up?" she asked, but he didn't say anything. Azula closed the door behind her and took her seat at the front of the room, calmly folding her arms over her chest.

"I've been thinking about you all day," she said.

"Why?" he asked warily. Azula tilted her head at him.

"I've been looking forward to this."

Sokka frowned and shifted his weight, trying not to look like he was in too much pain.

Azula studied him. "What have you been thinking about?"

Sokka ignored her.

"Your friends, maybe?" she asked. "You care about them, don't you?"

She couldn't have actually expected him to answer these questions.

"Don't be shy. I know you do," she said. "I've seen you with them. You're a classic Water Tribesman—always looking out for your family, watching your friends' backs. It must be hard for you, being away from them." She paused. "Do you think it's hard for _them_?"

Sokka looked at her uneasily. Azula let the silence settle. She was watching him so closely it made his skin crawl. Did she know something he didn't? Were the others OK? Sokka clenched his jaw, the cold prick of worry creeping into his bones.

"Were you important to them?" she said.

Ah, no. So that was it. She didn't know anything about the others; this was just a game she was playing to try to get under his skin.

She purred at him, "Are they any worse off, now that you're gone?"

Her tone was like snow at midnight, soft and quiet but deadly cold. He knew her words were poison, but how could he help but hear them? And after they'd entered his skull, how could he help but think about them? He imagined the others packing up camp and flying away on Appa, saved from capture by Suki's warning. _Sokka_ was the idiot who'd fallen to the Fire Nation. The others had to run because _he'd_ screwed up. They could certainly manage without him; maybe they'd even be better off.

He cursed himself. He'd thought he'd gotten over this anxiety with Piandao, but now the old sense of worthlessness was finding its way back. As if it weren't enough that he couldn't bend like the others, it seemed he was also the most incompetent of the non-benders. After all, _Piandao_ and _Suki_ couldn't bend, but _they_ weren't chained up in a Fire Nation base.

He swallowed, twisting his wrists in his chain as a dull, aching sickness built up in his stomach.

Azula lifted her head. It was clear that she had gotten to him, and she seemed satisfied with the result. But rather than gloating, she went a step further and looked at him with such a pained and intense expression of pity that it almost could have been disgust.

The moment Sokka saw her, his heart stopped beating. It was like a hand had been thrust into his stomach and was trying to pull out his organs. The look on her face was the look his father had given him when he'd been told his mother was dead.

"So it's true," Azula said. "Even _you_ recognize your worthlessness." She shook her head, eyes glistening with mock sympathy. He wanted her to stop looking at him like that. This mingling of Azula and the memory of his parents made him feel disgusting.

Then she said, "I can hardly blame your father for abandoning you like he did."

And a bolt of ice went through his spine.

"What?" he said.

Knowing she had gained the upper hand, Azula allowed herself to smile.

"Are you surprised I know that about you? Don't be. The Fire Nation keeps detailed records of our military history. I spent last night doing a little research.

"It turns out, a few years ago, when The Southern Raiders went to the South Pole to exterminate the last Southern Water Bender, the woman who confessed to it was actually the chief's wife. That explains why all the men from the village set sail on a campaign against the Fire Nation immediately after her execution. Chief Hakoda must have wanted revenge. At very least, he needed to make up for the pathetic show of not resisting the Raiders in the first place.

"But this wasn't all that long ago. You should be able to remember it. The chief's wife was your _mother_, after all."

Sokka stared in disbelief. She had no right to know this.

"What interests me most, though," she continued with pleasure, "is why _you_ didn't sail on the campaign with the others. Your _mother_ had just been murdered, and your father was leading the charge—you _must_ have wanted revenge as badly as he did."

Sokka glared at her, never blinking for fear that the water would spill from his eyes. Azula had hit the mark dead-on. He'd practically _begged_ his father to let him come along, regardless of whether he was old enough yet.

"You probably think your _age_ was the reason you were left behind," she said slyly. "According to custom, you were too young to be a warrior. But think about it, Sokka. In times of war, _every_ able boy should be allowed to be a soldier. Crisis outweighs tradition.

"So you know what that means? Your father didn't leave you behind because you were too young; he left you behind because you weren't fit to bring along." She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to deny it. "You were there when the Raiders arrived, weren't you? You could have done something to stop them. You had a duty, in fact, as the chief's only son. And yet you never mounted an attack. You stood by and let them walk right by you. _You_ let them kill your mother. You failed your family and your entire tribe. You're completely useless." She paused and looked him hard in the eye. "Maybe if you hadn't been such a disappointment, your father wouldn't have _abandoned_ you."

Sokka snorted at her conclusion, struggling to keep himself together. Every nerve in his body begged him to deny it, but his heart knew she was right. Everything he'd done had been a glorious failure, and now here he was, at the mercy of the enemy.

"But don't worry," she added. "There's still a bright side. By letting your mother die, the _actual_ Water Bender managed to stay hidden. Your darling sister. What was her name again?"

He would _not_ say it.

"Katara," she said.

"Stop talking," he croaked.

"Ooh," Azula cooed happily, walking right up to him. "I'm starting to get through to you. Do you see now how completely you've failed your people? I mean, look at you—" she pressed a finger into his bare stomach—"imagine who you're shaming right now, just by _being_ here."

He twitched at her touch, even as Suki's face appeared in his mind. If _she_ could see where he'd ended up... He was ashamed even at the idea of it. And what about his father? Or Katara, Aang, or Toph, even _Zuko_? All of them were still out there somewhere, fighting the fight he'd failed to put up.

Azula curled her finger, stroking his stomach as she pulled her hand away. She was so close, smiling contentedly and basking in his misery. Sokka felt so humiliated he didn't even want to look at her, let alone hang next to her, naked and spread-out like a slab of meat, red and uncomfortable with emotion. He felt so small and vulnerable, like nothing was safe from her. She had his weapons, his privacy, and now even his history.

As he turned his head away from her, feeling her breath waft against his chest, he realized she was winning the power game. He was the bug, and she was the boot. The thought made him shiver in sudden anger.

Then it hit him—he knew why Azula was trying so hard: she had a personal vendetta against him. Because _he_ had something _she_ didn't.

He looked at her with new recognition, hate bubbling up in his chest.

"You're just lonely," he accused. "Because all you've got is a giant army and no friends."

Azula's eyes widened in astonishment. She backed up and tried to recover, but the damage had already been done.

"So that's it," he confirmed. "It's not just that you can't take us down, even though you've been trying so hard. It's...you don't know what to do. I saw what happened at the Boiling Rock. Your girlfriends turned their backs on you to help us escape. And that's after even _Zuko_ joined our side. You're not as in control as you thought you were. Your resources are all falling away."

Azula was glaring at him now, trying in vain to conceal her embarrassment. He'd obviously struck a nerve. He was a bit surprised she'd taken it so hard, but pleased that he'd found a way to get back at her. Her eyes were angry but tinged with panic, as if he'd discovered her darkest secret.

And maybe he had.

With a vindictive scowl, he announced the beautiful thing he'd realized: "You're totally alone now."

In a sudden flash of rage, Azula leapt at him with fire. Sokka started back, panicked, but there was nothing he could do. She flung a fireball at his chest and, snarling, pressed it into him with her palm.

He screamed, agonized by the pain as his skin blistered and shriveled in the heat. Even after the flame dissipated, his skin screamed at the burn, and Azula lifted her hand to reveal the steaming red wound as wide as his fist. Tears rolled from his eyes from the sheer intensity of the pain.

Without giving him even a moment to recover, Azula grabbed him by the throat with one hand and held him tightly to hold his attention.

"Don't talk about things you don't know about, peasant," she hissed. "Look at where you are and then tell me who's alone. _This_ is where your _friendship_ has gotten you."

Sokka stared at her, red-eyed, hardly able to focus enough to understand what she was saying. He could smell the smoke rising off his chest. Azula sneered at him violently, her nails digging into his skin, then pushed him away and went to the door.

"Wait!" he pleaded, gasping in pain.

Azula stopped in the doorway and turned to look at him.

"At least let me down," he said, his spirit falling with each syllable. He couldn't stand to be left like this any longer. He would go insane.

But Azula only turned and extinguished the torches before slamming the door behind her.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Late that night, Sokka awoke from a miserable and uneasy sleep. He was exhausted, hungry, frozen, and in pain. Hanging from his shackles, his legs limp below him, his hands had become swollen with blood and felt as if they were about to burst open, or as if they already had. The pain of it was incredible. It was a wonder he hadn't woken up sooner.

His eyes still closed, as if this provided him some kind of comfort, he groaned and whined as he lifted himself gingerly off the cuffs, sending sharp bursts of pain down his arms as he did so. He hadn't even been able to feel his fingers before, but as blood quickly rushed back out of them, they came alive with an unbearable prickling sensation, worse than if they'd fallen asleep. It was maddening and painful, and he clenched his hands over and over to try to make it stop.

Only then did he notice the faint, faint light playing on his eyelids. Confused, he peeled his eyes open and was disoriented to discover that the light came from a tiny point of pale blue. He peered blearily ahead and gradually made sense of the dark, pulsing mass in front of him. Then recognition dawned, and he froze, as if in terror, not sure what to make of it.

Azula sat there in her nightgown, her hair hanging loosely around her face, a single blue flame dancing on her fingertip. She was watching him from the shadows with dark, sultry eyes.

Sokka gaped, his heart suddenly pounding. Azula crinkled her nose as if annoyed that he'd woken, and without saying anything, snuffed out her flame.

He tensed.

The room was pitch black, a darkness as palpable and thick as ink. Even the torches of the hall had been extinguished for the night. Sokka tried to peer into the blackness, his eyes wide and searching, but there was nothing to see—only the swirling shadows of his own vision, the illusion of movement made by his body.

Azula got up: he could hear the scrape of the chair against the floor and the rustle of her skirts as she took a few steps. But after that, there was nothing at all. Absolute silence. He started to panic. His breath caught in his throat. He had a sudden, wild fear that she was behind him, about to pounce like an animal. Adrenaline pumped through his body and goosebumps prickled over his skin.

But then the door opened, and Azula lit a new light, looking back at him like a shadowy ghost, framed in black against a void of black. He looked at her, frightened like a cornered animal. She didn't move, just stood there and stared, stony and cold. Then she turned to the hallway and closed the door to his room, and Sokka watched the light under the door fade into nothingness as she walked away.

His heart was racing. Azula had been spying on him in his sleep. Fiercely on edge, he strained hard to listen and searched through the darkness until his head ached. Had she really gone, or was she waiting in the darkness, just outside his door, until the moment he was most vulnerable again? Were there others stationed in the corners of his room? Was someone watching him right now? Who or what was hiding silently in the darkness, and how long had they been there, and how close could they be?

He carried on like this long into the night, harassed by paranoia to the point of grief. He had never been afraid of the dark before, so why was he sweating and shaking now? He barely even dared to breathe anymore for fear that something would detect him and attack him.

But there was only the stillness and the silence and the dark. It was like he had gone deaf and blind. The world didn't exist anymore. The blackness had choked out reality.

The next thing he knew with any kind of certainty was that the light under the door had swelled back into brightness. He stood in his room like the risen dead, blinking at the door, hardly able to make sense. His mind was sluggish. His head lolled. It had been an agonizingly long, sleepless night.

When the servant girls returned with their buckets in hand, Sokka stared at them mutely through red, puffy eyes. He didn't care what they did to him anymore. He was so tired and weak. His only thought now was for the incredible discomfort ransacking every inch of his body.

The girls performed an abridged cleaning routine, mopping around his feet and wiping his face but leaving the rest of him mostly untouched. They dabbed at the angry burn on his chest with cold, wet rags, but he hummed in pain and they quickly stopped. He supposed they would leave then, their job done, but they surprised him with one small act of kindness.

One of the girls lifted a cup to his lips, supporting his head with her other hand and gently encouraging him to drink. The cup was filled with sweetened milk, and once Sokka realized this, he accepted it readily. He hadn't had a thing in two days, and he was ravenous with hunger and dehydration. He gulped and guzzled until the glass was empty and even resisted when the girl pulled it away. He panted and longed for another glass, but that was all the milk the girls had brought. Seeing his desperation, though, they dipped the cup into a bucket of clean water and allowed him to drink at least that much more. He panted again to convey his thanks, but they wouldn't let him drink again.

"You'll be sick," the girl said quietly as she wiped his mouth with the corner of her rag, shame-facedly avoiding eye contact. With nothing more to do or say, they collected their things and left the room.

Sokka hung in detached acceptance, wiped out by the blissful sensation of having something in his stomach again. He was too weak to fight his pain and too tired to think coherently, but it was amazing how so little could restore his spirit. After a few hours of stillness and rest, he felt able to reinvigorate himself in preparation for Azula's next visit.

He took a deep breath, stretching his lungs to their fullest capacity, exhilarated by the feeling of his ribs expanding. He lifted his head and pulled up his legs, shook out his arms and moved his fingers—anything to get his blood flowing and to remind himself he was still alive. He'd been chained, abused, burned, and neglected, but he hadn't been broken yet. There was still some spirit left in him, and he wanted to make the most of it. It didn't matter how long he'd be kept here; he vowed he would outlast Azula.

When evening came and the princess reappeared, Sokka stood tall and defiant, overpowering his aching body if only for a while, so that she could see she hadn't won.

But Azula was not in her usual lively mood. When she opened the door and lit the torches, she only frowned at him for a moment before sitting in her chair and folding her arms, looking at him like a difficult puzzle. She said nothing, but stared at him closely, for minutes on end, not even acknowledging that he was conscious of her presence. As her eyes trailed up and down his torso, he twitched and fidgeted, uncomfortable under such a long and intense gaze. He became anxious, wondering when she would make a move, and found it more and more difficult to maintain his bravado as his muscles got shaky and his stamina gave out.

More than once he noticed Azula stop to study the area below his waist, but despite his embarrassment, he gritted his teeth and focused on trying not to appear in pain. But as time dragged on and Azula's fascination deepened, his unease began to get the better of him.

Azula shifted in her chair and put a hand to her face, one finger on her eyebrow, the others brushing against her lips. Her eyes were fixed between Sokka's legs, lingering there longer than ever before. Sokka felt himself go red and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but Azula never looked away. When she started to chew the corner of her lip, Sokka flushed hot in embarrassment.

"Stop looking at me," he demanded self-consciously. Azula blinked and for the first time looked him in the eye. She sneered.

"Keep quiet." Her eyes stayed locked with his for a moment, then she suddenly diverted her gaze to the side. Something was on her mind.

She avoided looking at him for a while, instead took to rolling a fireball between her fingers. But with time, her eyes started to wander back to him, and eventually she became engrossed in another staring spell. The fire at her fingertips idly diffused, forgotten.

Sokka couldn't stand to play model for her peep show, but there was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes to at least spare him the sight of her piercing, hungry gaze. After waiting in misery for what seemed like an age, the silence was broken by a sudden rapid tapping sound, and Sokka opened his eyes to find Azula nervously bouncing her heel against the floor. One arm was crossed over her chest, her other elbow resting on it, propping up her chin and obscuring the lower part of her face with the heel of her hand. Her eyebrows were knit and worried. As soon as she became aware of Sokka's gaze, she re-crossed her legs and stopped her fidgeting.

He had never seen Azula so flustered. Her face had even gone a shade redder than before.

"Something's bothering you," he ventured, twisting his wrists to relieve some pain from the cuffs. Azula narrowed her eyes and looked him again in the face. He was tired of this, angry at her for tormenting him, and his desire for retaliation was growing irrationally strong. Seeing her like this filled him with malicious courage. "I know why you keep coming here," he said. "_Stress relief_. Things must not be going the way you want, so you take it out on me."

Azula scowled at him and lowered her hand, a sarcastic smile pulling on her mouth. "Oh, you don't know the half of it," she said.

Sokka's nostrils flared. "I told you. The war must be getting hard to fight with no allies left on your side."

She snapped.

"You," she spat, "are awfully chatty today." She whipped out her arm, and the torches flared up for a moment to triple their size. Startled, Sokka jumped aside, pulling on his cuffs.

"Are you _comfortable_ here?" Azula went on. "Is it _easy_ being my prisoner?" He looked at her as she stood up, suddenly sorry he'd tempted her. She raised her arm as if to backhand him, but at the height of her anger, she froze. Her eyes narrowed, and her expression grew cold and sinister. She stepped back and made a meaningful fist, looking Sokka in the eye. He waited anxiously, not knowing what she was planning, but when she opened her fist again, it was empty. A moment passed before Sokka felt the heat at his side.

Looking, he found a tiny blue flame—no bigger than the flame at the tip of a candle—flickering dangerously close, just below his armpit. He shrank back, but Azula drew the flame closer to his skin.

"No, don't!" Sokka said suddenly, too late, and of course with no effect. The heat intensified quickly, pricking at his skin, and he let out an "agh!" as he grit his teeth against the pain. But this was not a short, pointed burn. Azula kept the flame close, waiting until he blistered, then slowly drew the flame down, lengthening the burn along his side.

He tried not to cry out, but how could he resist? It would take a stronger man than he was not to give in to such torture. He shouted and moaned, not able to get away, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut he would have a headache after. This wasn't like the other times; this was careful, calculated torture. Azula wanted to see him writhe.

By the time Azula had progressed down to his waist, Sokka had forgotten any delusions of restraint. He was wailing now, going mad with pain, moaning and coughing like a dog in a trap.

"Stop!" he begged, over and over. "Stop! Stop! _Stop_! Please stop!" But Azula wasn't satisfied until she'd drawn a scorched, bubbling line right down to his hip.

When the fire diffused, Sokka collapsed in his chains, weeping and wheezing and mindlessly apologetic. Whatever he had done, he would never do it again. God, please, let him never do it again. He would do anything; just keep the fire away from him.

"You want to know the _real_ reason I keep coming down here?" Azula said. She walked right up to him and laid a hand on his head. "Just because it's _fun_."

Sokka wouldn't have responded even if he could. She couldn't be telling the truth. _No one_ was that ruthless. Not unless they were...unstable.

She pushed her fingernails through his hair, spreading her palm out like a spider. "You can gloat and theorize all you want, but the truth is, the Fire Nation is _winning_, and I have nothing better to do."

She pushed his head away.

She was already opening the door to leave before Sokka collected himself enough to speak.

"What do you _want_?" he demanded shrilly, his voice tight and hoarse with pain. He tried to stand, but he was too shaky—whether with fatigue, fear, or fury he couldn't even tell. She hadn't asked him a single question, wasn't treating him at all like prisoner of war. He'd been down here two days, and not a moment of it made sense.

Azula stopped in the doorway and shifted her weight uncomfortably. Sokka's head was spinning, his whole body going numb from trauma. She rubbed the back of her neck and looked for a moment like she wanted to stay, then thought better of it and stepped into the hallway, flustered and swinging the door closed as she went.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka couldn't remember anything after that. The next thing he knew, he was waking up slowly, as if stepping out of a fog. He opened his eyes and looked blearily ahead of him, confused as to why he wasn't able to see. But after a moment, he realized it was the darkness, and bit by bit he remembered where he was.

He stood up shakily but fell immediately over again, becoming as fluid and formless as water. He was very light-headed. The room was spinning. He swung for a moment, then settled into stillness, and with every breath he took, his brain functioned a little better. After a while, he'd regained his equilibrium, and he pulled himself to his feet more surely this time. His hands screamed out in horrifying pain, shivering down the rest of his body. He called out and squirmed, willing them to stop hurting, but the blood coursing down into his arms felt as if it had been poisoned. It was a while before he could deal with the pain enough to form thoughts again.

His first realization was that he hadn't fallen asleep; he'd passed out. He'd been struggling for days to fight off that impulse, but it seemed he'd finally given in. He felt a pang of failure and worry—he was at his limit; his body couldn't take this anymore. How much longer would it be until he was dead?

But then the rest of his body started to come out of its stupor as well, and he cringed again as pain spread through him. He'd never been in this much pain for this long before. It was making him insane. His hands hung uselessly from his wrists, throbbing and purple and measuring his pulse in little bursts of biting ice. His chest, meanwhile, felt as if he'd been put on the rack, stretched almost to snapping. The muscles slipping over his ribs objected to being returned to their neutral positions, too used to being pulled as he hanged from the ceiling. His stomach, on the other hand, was cramped and tender with constantly trying to support his weight. His feet and toes were so cold he could barley stand on them, and his newly burnt side poured hot pain into him like waves lapping the shore.

This was the worst situation he'd ever been in. There was no way he could stand, no position he could twist into, which didn't make him delirious with discomfort. The more he tried, the more frustrated he became, until he was wincing over the knot in his throat. This was a living nightmare! He just wanted it to be over.

Tears burned in his eyes as he realized he couldn't take any more. He wanted to go home. He wanted down. He didn't want to fight in the war anymore.

He tugged at his cuffs, grunting in anger and frustration, but his wrists stayed firmly locked in place. Furious and crying, he thrashed around, trying to free himself but not making any progress. He cried out obscenities—to the chains, to the walls—pulling and twisting until he wore himself out. He wept and sunk down on his knees, swearing in despair when a tear landed on his burned chest and made him jump with new pain. Shaking, he moaned and wiped his eyes on his shoulders.

He didn't want to hang here forever. He didn't want to die. He swallowed. He breathed. And his anger blossomed into a new thought:

_Forget_ spending the rest of his life like this. He didn't want to spend another _second_ like this. He was through waiting and cooperating. He was not helpless. He was going to get out of these cuffs.

But pulling and tugging did him no good. He needed to think bigger. Looking up at the ceiling, he took a few deep breaths and crystallized his resolve. He would push himself out.

With a tremendous effort, he hefted his knees into the air, straining with all his might to lift his feet over his head. But he was too weak and tired. After a moment of shuddering, he collapsed back to the floor. Even after so little, he had to catch his breath. But he wasn't giving up. He was a trained warrior; pull-ups were child's play.

He heaved again, his muscles burning with effort, and made a little more progress before falling back down. He hurt so badly, his whole body pulsed, but as he kept fighting, he started to feel it less. He was getting high on pain. All the better for his escape.

This time he prepped like a runner on the starting line, pouring all his tension into his thighs, coiled like a spring about to jump. With a hearty thrust of determination and an angry grunt, he pushed himself forward, swinging his legs up, and heaved with all his remaining might his legs toward the ceiling.

"Aaagghh!" he grunted, face twisted with effort, and finally, after what felt like a never-ending struggle, his toe made contact with the rough stone of the ceiling. He clawed his way forward until he was hanging perfectly upside-down, squatting against the ceiling, feet planted firmly above his head, his wrists straining agonizingly against his cuffs. He panted and could already feel his hands slipping down into the shackles.

But it wasn't enough. Despite more than all the force of his weight pulling him toward the floor, his hands stopped their slow progress. He groaned and pushed gently against the ceiling, folding his thumbs as far as he could into the palms of his hands, but there was no movement. He was stuck.

Gasping through the pain and effort of holding himself in this position, he blinked away new tears and powered through a moment of hesitation. There was no turning back now; he was _not_ staying here. He muttered a frightened prayer of protection, closed his eyes, and shoved off from the ceiling.

It all happened in a second. Pain shot through both his wrists, he shouted, and his right thumb popped out of its socket. With a nauseating lurch, the hand slipped out of the cuff. This left all his weight and momentum to his remaining left hand. Sokka felt rather than heard the _snap_ as the bone under his pinky finger splintered and collapsed, allowing his left hand to fold and slip free as well. Electricity rushed down his arm, scrambling his senses, and he screamed in pain; but then he crashed against the floor, cracking his head against the concrete and getting the wind knocked cleanly out of him, silencing him.

He writhed on the floor, holding his hands to his chest. As soon as he caught his breath, he wanted to scream again, but instead clamped his teeth into one arm and willed himself to stay quiet. The last thing he needed was for someone to hear him now and cut his freedom short.

But the pain in his hands was immense, now coupled with a splitting headache. He dug his heels into the floor and rolled back and forth like a deranged animal, trying to cope with this psychotic, raging pain. Tears rolled off his face as freely as if someone had turned over a pail of water. He gasped and moaned. He was going to pass out.

As soon as he had the thought, he started to feel detached from the world, and a disembodied buzzing filled his ears. He thought he was in a room full of loudly talking people, and despite his lying on solid ground, he felt a pronounced sensation of falling. He could no longer hold his arms up; they fell pointlessly to his sides, and his head lolled back. Without really meaning to, he stopped moving, and the room disappeared; his pain slipped away, his awareness slipped away, and he fell into oblivion, dead to the world.

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The first thing Sokka became aware of was the cold. He whimpered and felt around for his blanket, but when his hand made contact with the floor, he gasped in pain and jolted awake, feeling sick to his stomach. His head reeled, and it was a few seconds before he even realized he wasn't in camp, as he'd thought he'd been. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his burns, and remembered what had happened.

He sat there on the floor, cross-legged with his broken hands in his lap. He was weak, but he felt better than he had. He must have had been out for a few hours, at least. He was still sore and painful, but his head was less fuzzy. And better yet, he had his _arms_.

Sokka smiled grimly, looking down at his hands. He could barely make anything out in the darkness, but that wasn't the point. He was looking _down_ at his hands. He was sitting on the floor. He'd _beaten_ those fucking shackles. He almost felt like laughing, maybe crying.

He tried to move his fingers and found it was perfectly possible, but incredibly painful. His broken left hand radiated pain, swollen around the broken bone. His right hand, though, only hurt when he moved it, and if he could re-locate his thumb, it might stop hurting altogether.

He maneuvered himself so that his feet were drawn together in front of him, then pinched his dislocated thumb between his heels, bit his tongue, and yanked up on his arm. A burst of pain erupted into his palm as his thumb distanced from his hand, but the bone slid sideways, back into alignment, and when Sokka released his heels, the pain grew quieter. He experimentally made a fist and winced as his thumb jumped minutely back into place, restoring his hand to relative normal.

But his other hand was a different story. He prodded it gently, hoping to feel the break, but the merest touch shocked him with a pain so intense it made him jump away. His hand was useless, then. He would just have to try not to make it worse until he could get it set.

He looked toward the door, his one source of light—and his one chance at escape. He wondered what time of day it was. Who would be his next visitor, and how long would he be waiting for them?

He climbed to his feet and tested the lock, just to confirm that he really was trapped, then listened at the door for any signs of movement outside. He heard nothing, but if he stood long enough, he could imagine the faint crackle of the torches mounted on the other side of the wall.

He stepped away and sank back down to the floor. His spirit was refreshed, but his limbs felt like jelly. Exclusive of the physical strain of having been shackled so long, his body was running on empty. Even in their worst moments traversing the globe, he and the others had never gone so long without food or water. He was literally pushing the limits of what was even survivable.

All the more reason to get out now.

He sat and thought for a long time how he might manage his escape, but in his current condition, nothing seemed especially plausible. For one thing, he could barely move, and for another, he had nothing in the room to work with. ...Nothing except for Azula's chair. He looked at it, looming hazily in the darkness near the far wall. It wasn't much, but he would make it work. He dragged it over to the door and sat down, prepared to wait and grateful that he didn't have to suffer the cold concrete.

Now that he was free of the discomfort of hanging, he found it was much more difficult to stay awake, so over the next few hours, rather than risk losing the element of surprise by falling asleep at an inopportune moment, he kept his blood flowing by pacing the room every now and again. Finally, just as he was pondering getting up again, he heard the distinct approach of footsteps at the end of the hall.

His hair rose. A single pair of footsteps likely indicated Azula, but no matter who his guest was, he had _one_ chance to overtake them and make a break for it. He hurriedly and silently got to the floor, the chair standing between him and the exit, leaned back on his elbows, and braced his feet against the chair. The footsteps drew closer.

Sokka held his breath, fixated on the shadow that obscured his slit of light. A moment passed, then the door swung inward.

Azula didn't have time to notice anything was different as she stepped into the room before Sokka shoved the chair into her. He shouted with exhilaration; Azula shrieked in surprise. She stumbled, cursing, and fell to the floor. Sokka was up in a flash and dashed out the door, knocking the chair over as he went.

For a moment, he was disoriented. His vision fogged with light, and in his panic, he mistrusted which way it was to the exit. He faltered, squinted toward the stairs at the end of hallway, then leapt back into a run.

But Azula was quick, too, and at present, much healthier. Before Sokka had taken three steps, she caught up and tackled him to the ground.

"Aagh!" Sokka screeched, skinning his knees on the concrete and only barely resisting the urge to brace himself with his hands. As such, he hit the ground hard, bruising his ribs and elbows. He tried to recover, but Azula clapped a hand around his ankle, and then he was being dragged backward.

He kicked and twisted, not only in hopes of escape but also to protect his burned torso from the floor. Instead, his hip was scraped along the concrete as Azula pulled him backward into the room.

"Let go!" he screamed pointlessly, struggling to regain control, but Azula dropped onto his back, digging her knee into his spine.

"How did you get loose?!" she demanded. Sokka didn't answer except to cringe in pain and brace himself up on one elbow in an attempt to throw her off. Azula knocked him down again and pinned him on his stomach, leaning over him and grabbing both his wrists. Sokka yelped at the mistreatment of his hand, and Azula lit the torches with a toss of her head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sokka saw Azula glance up to the still-locked shackles hanging from the ceiling. Making the connection, she turned back to Sokka and adjusted her grip, leaning forward and pressing down onto the backs of his hands. Sokka's broken bone screamed, as did he, and he thrashed in agony.

"You slipped the cuffs!" Azula said, astonished. She let up, and Sokka gasped through his tears, drawing his hands toward him. Azula pressed his head into the floor as she pushed herself up, then Sokka rolled away from her, further into the room. She meant to deal a sharp kick to his stomach, but Sokka blocked her with his feet, and Azula retreated back into the hallway, slamming the door closed again. Gasping and panting, cradling his injured hand, Sokka could see her feet under the door. She hesitated a good half minute before hurrying away.

Sokka rolled onto his back, moaning at the slowly fading pain in his hand. His escape had been a remarkable failure. It was idiotic of him to even have tried. He was a dead man now. Now that Azula had seen the extent of his persistence, it might not be worth it to her to keep him alive.

After a few minutes, a collection of heavy footfalls came storming back down the hallway. Sokka rolled onto his knees, bracing his head against the floor. The guards were coming to deal with him, and he didn't want to look like he'd given up.

Not that there was anything he could have done, anyway. When the door opened, six soldiers poured into the room, and Sokka went pale just at the thought of being so horrendously overpowered. He barely had time to blink before a boot slammed down on his back, forcing him roughly to his stomach.

Sokka yelled as two more soldiers put their boots to the backs of his knees and the first sat on top of him, straddling his torso and pinning him down. A fourth soldier kneeled in front of him and yanked Sokka's arms forward, over his head.

Sokka screamed at them.

"Let me go, you bastards! Fucking Fire Nation cowards!"

There was absolutely nothing he could do, though. All he accomplished by struggling was tearing his burns against the floor. The soldier on his back was crushing the air out of him, but Sokka kept yelling and screaming until someone hit him in the face. After that he was silent, his fury fizzling out into dry and helpless anguish. The soldier at his front pressed Sokka's forearms together, elbows to wrists, so that the soldier on his back could bind them tightly in a wide leather strap. Sokka could no longer move more than to twitch his hands pointlessly at the sides. He laid his cheek against the floor and whined quietly in grief with every breath he took. Above him, someone muttered, "Let's see him slip _that_."

Throughout this, Sokka had become aware of a sharp, repetitive clanging coming from the other end of the room, but in his distress, he couldn't begin to imagine what it was. The soldiers near him attached a short chain at places near each of his elbows, and now, fully cuffed, Sokka was pulled to his knees to see at last what the clanging had been about.

The two remaining soldiers had pounded two metal stakes into the floor just below where his old cuffs still dangled. To each stake was attached a short length of chain, each of which ended in a thick leather cuff. Ankle restraints, Sokka realized, and he sagged backward into the legs of a guard, his cuffed and chained arms lying uselessly in his lap. Depression as heavy and dark as the universe weighed him down. The guard kneed him forward, and Sokka hunched over, sobbing weakly into his own knees.

"Please just let me go," he begged. "I can't give you anything. I'm useless. Please just let me go."

They ignored his pleas, hefting him up and dragging him over to the stakes. He didn't resist. When the guards set him down, he fell numbly onto his back and lay miserably still, staring blearily at the ceiling. He'd lost all his heart and energy. The guards strapped his ankles into the restraints and lowered the pulley so that his old cuffs crumpled into a heap on his stomach. Someone chained his new arm cuff to the pulley and lifted Sokka into the air like a freshly killed animal. Tears rolled silently off his face. When the guards brought him to standing height, he didn't bother to press his feet against the floor.

The guards then filed out into the hallway, and Azula's voice came drifting into the room: "Now get out of here. I want to be left in private."

Sokka looked to the door. Had Azula been there the whole time? If so, she'd heard him screaming and begging the guards to free him. He dropped his head and swallowed a sob that had rushed suddenly into his chest. He was so embarrassed and so ashamed. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

Once the guards were gone, Azula stepped into view. Her posture was all wrong, her demeanor changed. With her presence, the atmosphere of the room became secretive and dark. She closed the door quietly behind her and checked twice to be sure it was locked.

Sokka closed his eyes, breathing through his tears in the irrational hope that Azula wouldn't see him crying. He was so overwhelmed by pain and despair that he almost didn't notice Azula coming close to him. But, instinctively sensing he wasn't safe, he opened his eyes and found her staring animally at him, her hand hovering delicately near his face. He started, and Azula parted her lips, pressing her palm gently against his cheek. She smeared a tear from his eye with her thumb.

"Who would ever know?" she whispered to herself. Sokka tried to turn away, but she cupped his face in both her hands and made him look her in the eye. Her expression was ravenous and predatory. She was going to hurt him. A cold sweat swept over Sokka's body, and he drew in a breath and planted his feet on the floor.

With one hand, Azula reached up and untied Sokka's wolf tail. Buzzing filled Sokka's head, and he shut his eyes against a fresh flood of tears. His hair fell forward in thick dirty strands. His heart screamed in panic. Azula's fingers moved down to his neck and felt out the tiny hollow of his collarbone. "Don't," he begged. "Please don't." Her hands moved down to his chest. "Oh god, don't touch me. Please." His voice cracked.

Azula didn't acknowledge him. She delicately traced the edge of his burn, then circled his nipples. "Stop," Sokka mouthed, but his voice was gone. Azula pressed her fingertips into the soft flesh and caressed the little bumps that swelled up there. She hummed in interest.

Abandoning that, she bent her head close to him and blew softly onto his raw and bloodied chest. Goosebumps broke out over his skin. Azula stooped lower, bringing her hands to his hips, and lightly kissed his stomach. Sokka shuddered. He felt her tongue red hot on his skin, but when she pulled away, the wet streaks she left behind became cold as ice, like ghosts clinging to the places she'd touched.

Soon, Azula's hands found their way to his backside, and she was on her knees in front of him. Sokka whimpered at the thought of what might come next, but all she did was lay her cheek against his thigh. The crown of her head pressed gently against his groin. Moments passed, and Sokka felt sick to his stomach. Azula nudged his leg with her nose and explored with her hands the soft curves and texture of his behind.

She pulled away, lifting herself up by his hips, and stepped around behind him, trailing one hand along his stomach. Sokka whined as she pressed herself up against him, the thick panels of her uniform not masking the heat and shape of her body. Both her hands were now positioned low on his abdomen, and as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, she slid her palms down and cupped his genitals.

Sokka choked.

Within moments, Azula had his penis in her hands, toying with it and massaging it between her fingers. She kneaded the soft, cool flesh like dough, and Sokka writhed against her, as if trying to escape. But there was absolutely nothing he could do. He cried and leaned his head back, pushing her face away, but she just tightened her grip on his crotch and wrapped one arm vice-like around his waist. Her breath was on his neck. He shivered.

He didn't want it but couldn't prevent it when his body started to respond. He flexed his legs and pulled at his ankle cuffs, and his penis swelled in Azula's fist. Delighted, she purred at him, "That's right," and adjusted her grip to stroke him.

"Stop," he said breathlessly, tears dripping from his chin. Azula pumped her fist and Sokka arched his back, panting. "No," he moaned. "Please. Just leave me alone."

Azula pushed her hips forward, pressing their bodies together, and leaned her cheek against the back of his neck. She was panting too, making tiny sounds of effort as she worked her hand faster over his erection.

Sokka twitched and strained against his restraints, and then, involuntarily, as if he'd been shocked with electricity, he bucked into her hand, his hips thrusting forward. Azula laughed in surprise and rubbed her thumb over the tip of his penis. Sokka gasped, twisting his head to the side. _Oh god_, he thought, _oh god, oh god..._ Resisting her stimulation was impossible. He was horrified and humiliated, but his need for release was getting maddening. He moaned with inexpressible emotion and then found it too difficult to stop. His labored breathing and high, strained cries coupled the rhythm of Azula's beating fist.

After a while, Azula started to slow down, and the change of pace made Sokka more uncomfortable than ever. His breath caught in his throat, and he straightened his legs, his whole body tingling with unspent energy—but Azula was done. She stopped her pumping and gripped his erection hard in her fist, squeezing so violently she might as well have been strangling him, and Sokka cried out, curling forward in pain. She squeezed from his penis a drop of clear liquid and allowed it to pool between her fingers. Finally she let go, and Sokka gasped, his erection still standing off him, aching and unsatisfied. Azula lifted her hand and smeared his pre-come down his face. He turned away from her and sobbed, new tears simply disappearing into the already too-wet surfaces of his cheeks.

Azula unwrapped herself from around him and backed away, leaving Sokka isolated in his own world of distress. He wouldn't open his eyes and couldn't keep from crying. He was like a child left alone in bed and afraid of the dark. All he could do was tremble.

Azula made no sound and didn't touch him again. After some time, Sokka calmed himself enough to be able to look at the room again. Peeling open his eyes and peering through his tears, he could only make out the warped shape of Azula as she stepped out from behind him. He wiped his eyes on his shoulders, and she came clearer into view, pacing broodingly away from him. She was wiping her hand clean on the leg of her pants.

Sokka took deep, shaky breaths, watching her closely and blinking away new tears whenever they slowly welled up. Azula seemed more concerned now with analyzing her own part in the encounter than she did in handling Sokka anymore. She picked up the chair from where it lay by the door and agitatedly took a seat.

Sokka wriggled, trying to cope with the slowly fading hardness between his legs, and Azula silently kept rubbing her soiled hand against her knee.

He was so tired. He hung there uselessly, watching Azula with half-lidded eyes red and swollen with unspeakable rage. Azula meanwhile seemed to be wavering between anxiety and resignation. There was no remorse in her, only concern for what would come next, now that this boundary had been crossed. She pondered her dirty hand, closing it thoughtfully on her thigh, then seemed to come to a decision. "I can't keep doing this," she said.

She looked at Sokka, and he tried to look back. He had an overwhelming, frightened urge to look away from her, but he fought it long enough to catch the meaning in her eye: she needed to get rid of him. She needed to _dispose_ of him.

A cold rush of understanding poisoned his blood. He was never getting out of here. This was the last room he would ever see. Sokka widened his eyes, and Azula confirmed all his fears by setting her jaw and looking away. Sokka's throat tightened against a wave of fresh sobs, and he bit down tightly to keep them contained, scrunching his face up but not able to stop his tears.

"I should just kill you," Azula said, and Sokka choked to hear it out loud. Moments passed.

A clattering of wood on stone told him Azula had knocked the chair back to the ground, and when he looked up, she was conjuring lightning in one hand. His heart dropped into his stomach. He was going to be sick.

Now. She was going to kill him now. He'd faced death before, but never like this. He couldn't cope with this. This wasn't like dying in battle. This was... This was being kidnapped, raped, and murdered.

He thought of his family. He thought of his village. Being home, fishing, throwing snowballs, warming up by the fire. He remembered being a child, before his mother was dead, before they found the Avatar. He was shaking now, pale, sick, and scared. He was going to die now.

Azula raised her hand, and Sokka felt the electric tingle on his skin, even from this distance. The room glowed blue. Azula's hair floated ethereally away from her face. Sokka tensed and waited helplessly, the moment hanging in the air. He stopped breathing.

Azula stretched out her arm and released a blast which screamed right by him and exploded against the wall. Sokka cried out in torturous shock. Stone and dust sprayed from the wall, biting into his skin where it hit him. Azula shielded her eyes from the debris, and the room faded back into stillness.

Sokka retched, losing control of himself completely. His body convulsed, heaving bile up into his throat. There was nothing in his stomach to expel, but he was sick to the very core. Had he been free, he would have collapsed, shaking so violently that he couldn't stand. He wailed, sobbing loudly in the horrific aftermath, his body trying to cough up some poison that didn't exist.

Azula wasn't going to kill him, but she had destroyed him. She kicked the chair across the room, then tore open the door and left in silence.

Sokka barely registered her going. He was hysterical, wracked with pain and fear and grief. He sobbed until his throat rattled and his head pounded, until his body just couldn't take any more.

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End of chapter two.


	3. Into the Fire

**REPLIES TO UNSIGNED REVIEWS OF CHAPTER THREE:**

**Fyroni:** Ah, thank you for the compliment! I'm glad you find the imagery gripping! Heart wrenching, but unable to look away—that's exactly the kind of reaction I hope for! :,D Thank you so much! I'm glad you like it!

**Guest:** Thank you so much for your strong reaction! I'm so glad you were anticipating reading, and so glad you found it worthwhile. ;; Your investment in this story means a lot to me. (And don't worry: Sokka will eventually be rescued.) Thank you!

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Thank you very much, everyone, for reading and reviewing, and remember, updates _are_ coming, so if you want to read more, please subscribe to this story! Thank you!

As always, I sincerely hope you enjoy this.

-Taa

**Warning: this chapter is strongly rated M for intense non-consensual sex acts.**

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Chapter Three: Into the Fire

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Sokka was done with. Horror and trauma had sucked from him the final dregs of his stamina, and now, wholly overtaken by a corrosive exhaustion, he fell heavy into unconsciousness. For hours and hours he hung from the ceiling of his cold, silent prison, sagging in his bonds as if dead, his arms folded and bound together above him, his ankles chained to the floor. His skin, naked and glistening with still-raw wounds, burned with fever, and his mind, sick with deliriousness, tormented him in his dreams.

He dreamt that he was screaming, thrashing psychotically against a suffocating darkness that engulfed his head and limbs like fog and held him down, exposed. Azula's hands moved over him, violating him, and through the rattling of his throat, he coughed up blood, thick and hot, dripping from his chin. The room around him was crumbling black charcoal, smoke and brimstone filling his lungs. He was choking, dying, becoming nothing but a convulsing body stretched out for someone else's use.

He cried in his dream, shivering under the unwelcome touch, when a sharp drop in his stomach jolted him awake, his blood racing with the panic of suddenly falling. Sokka blinked blindly, unable to comprehend what was happening, but perceived the sound of a clinking chain in the background as his body slowly collapsed to the floor. His knees hit stone, he dipped forward, his face sinking near the floor, and only then did he realize that he was being lowered by the pulley.

Before his face made contact with the ground, a large, rough hand pulled him back by the shoulder, and he was hefted back onto his knees. Being moved, having his arms lowered again to his stomach, sent pain washing through his sides. His muscles, too far stretched for too long, had forgotten where their proper places were on his body. Sokka whined at the pain, a sound so small and thin it could hardly be heard.

The hands that held him upright gripped him under his arms, digging into his tender muscle and hurting him, but Sokka couldn't move or object, too weak to properly interact with the world. His head rolled and hung forward as someone knelt before him and removed the leather cuff binding his forearms together.

_Guards_, Sokka hazily recognized.

Loosed, Sokka's arms fell free to his sides, and at the jostling of his left hand, he chirped in pain, stung sharply by the jarring of his broken bone. He tried to lift his head, but he barely had the strength. Every inch of him _hurt_, so much, his whole body sore and aching with abuse, cold, and sickness. And as the first guard set the arm cuff aside and the second pulled Sokka closer against his legs, Sokka's skin crawled with disgust, repulsed by the idea of being handled and touched without the ability to resist.

The guard in front him stooped down and wrapped his arms around Sokka's torso, lifting him to his feet. Sokka winced as the burn on his chest tore against the guard's armor, but he could do nothing to alleviate the pain, his cheek merely sinking against the man's chest, limp in his arms, dead weight. At his feet, the other guard unstrapped his ankles from the restraints.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a third guard appeared, and together, the three men maneuvered Sokka into something loose and baggy, bending his arms into sleeves and draping long fabric over his shoulders and down to his knees. He was leaned back into the arms of the guard behind him, and the guard before him tied a belt at Sokka's waist before the word _robe_ came into his mind.

The guards laid him out on the floor on a stretcher, and one of them pulled his robe over him, to cover his nakedness. Next moment, Sokka was lifted away, bobbing out into the hall on the gentle current of their footsteps. His head reeled. The sensation of being carried felt surreally familiar, like lying in the bottom of a boat, and with this thought playing on his memory, he was lulled back into oblivion.

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When next he awoke, he was so delirious he wasn't even aware of the position of his own body. Someone was pulling on his robe. There were hands at his waist, untying his belt, and at once Sokka's consciousness revved with anxiety. He tried to open his eyes, overcome with a sudden panic—_don't touch me!_—and tried to lift his hands to stop them. But he was too weak to move, and within seconds, he felt his robe open.

Cool air rushed over him, tears came into his eyes, and he whined, little more than a whistle of air. The person beside him put their hand on his forehead, talking to him gently, but he didn't know what they were saying. Around him, others took his limbs in their hands, bending his arms to get him out of his sleeves, pulling his robe out from under him, as if undressing a baby. He wanted to stop them but was powerless to protest, unable even to open his eyes, his head too heavy to lift from the pillow, tears seeping from under his eyelashes.

In the darkness, someone took him by the arm, pressed a finger into the crook of his elbow, and put a needle into him. Sokka took a breath, turning his head toward the sting, but too soon he felt the sweep of warm relaxation wash up his arm, through his blood, and again he lost consciousness.

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Some time later, as if in a new reality a universe away, Sokka woke to someone smartly patting his cheek. He blinked groggily, turning his head away, only faintly aware of the world around him. His eyes wouldn't focus. All the world seemed like nothing but a blur of dim colors and hazy light, but he perceived that he was lying on a bed with a woman sitting beside him. The woman spoke, then rolled his head gently back and forth by his chin, brushing his hair from his forehead. When Sokka resisted the push of her hand, she desisted and instead helped him to sit up.

She put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled him forward, but even that small amount of motion made him dizzy, and once upright, he leaned clumsily forward over his legs, confused but trying to make sense. He became aware now of a white-haired man standing at the foot of his bed. Sokka peered lethargically up at him, squinting uselessly at the blur in his eyes, his whole body feeling tingly and warm.

The woman beside him brought a warm cup to his lips, guiding his head with her hand again, and as the cup tipped, he immediately tasted broth, and at once, all thought slipped from his mind except the need to swallow it.

He gulped clumsily, eyes closed and barely remaining upright, and as he drank, the man asked him a question. Without lifting his face, without opening his eyes, Sokka tried dumbly to answer it without even having understood it, mumbling into the cup. No one said anything after that, and Sokka drank until the broth was gone.

The woman took the cup away, and on his own, Sokka tried to brace himself up with one hand, but the hand didn't seem to be working properly. In confusion, he sank instead down to his elbow, head hanging, but soon after, he lay back down entirely, unwilling to put in the effort to stay upright anymore.

The man stepped up beside him then and leaned over him, patting his cheek again. Sokka tried to look up at him, his eyelashes obscuring his vision, but he was too tired—he only wanted to sleep. The man was talking to him, but Sokka couldn't understand it. His eyes were already rolling back under his eyelids. He closed his eyes and lay there a while, listening to the man and woman exchanging words over him, but soon lost track of the world.

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Soon after, in a dim and echoey chamber, Sokka awoke once more as he was being lifted from a stretcher onto a mat on the floor. Blinking in confusion, he caught a glimpse of a gray stone ceiling, nearing, then moving away with dizzying effect as he was lowered to the floor. Someone put a pillow under his head and a blanket over his body, and around him, there was the click of many footsteps. He turned his head, his hair falling over his face, and peered blearily out across the floor as a row of barely-discernable boots filed away from him. A barred door slid shut, and the boots faded from sight, the sound of their footfalls becoming just a dim echo in his mind. Even as he closed his eyes, he registered vaguely the change of scenery, but he was too tired to care, and within moments, he fell back to sleep.

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When Sokka finally regained consciousness, the process was gradual and quiet, but marked once again by the same sureness of self that might have marked any morning waking up in his own sleeping bag. With his eyes still closed, he became aware of being awake, then aware of his own body, nestled comfortably into the soft mat beneath him, warm under the blanket. He lay still for a while, not bothered enough to move, and only after a long hesitation breathed in deeply and adjusted, rolling onto his back. Only then did he notice anything out of the ordinary.

Stretching his arms out under the blanket, he felt that his left hand seemed cumbersome, unable to move or bend at the wrist. He opened his eyes and pulled the blanket back to find that it had been cast in heavy plaster and cloth. He blinked at it, realizing that someone had set his broken bone for him, amazed that anyone would go to the trouble. As he wondered at it, he pushed himself up to sit.

His body was weak and hesitant to wake up, but as his blood started pulsing through his veins again, he could feel it reinvigorating his muscles. He looked at himself and saw that he was dressed in a simple prisoner's tunic and pants again, russet colored, and in much better condition than the ones he'd initially been given. He pushed his hair out of his face with his uncast right hand and saw, too, that this wrist was wrapped in bandages. Seeing that, he pulled open his collar and glanced down his shirt, finding that his chest, too, was wrapped in bandages, and that a long bandage also ran down his left side. They felt as natural on his skin as his clothes did, as if he'd been wearing them quite a long time. And, he noted, the burns that they were covering ached only dully.

Dropping his collar, he looked up at his surroundings, taking in now what he'd only barely perceived before. He was in a private prison cell. The foremost wall was a long row of bars with a sliding gate in one side, and the other three walls were polished red stone. The whole space was roomy enough to walk at least five paces across it any direction, and in front of him, in the far rear corner, stood a simple chamber pot. Looking behind him, in the opposite rear corner, his eyes fell upon a meal laid out for him.

At the sight of food, his heart raced, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. He rolled onto his knees and crawled over to the tray, his blanket clinging to his legs, trailing behind him, and found a small helping of cold porridge, sliced bananas and cheese, and dark bread and butter, laid out beside a generous wooden pail of water accompanied by a drinking ladle.

He sat for a while, eating single-mindedly, virtually starved, then sucked down ladle after ladle of water until the pail was nearly half empty. Panting, he set the ladle back with a sharp click, resting with his thumb hooked over the edge of the basin, and took a moment to catch his breath, monumentally grateful for what he was sure had been his first meal in days. He waited with his head bowed, letting his stomach settle, cherishing the feeling of food in his body again, and when he was ready, lifted his head and turned back to his room, ready to think.

The most obvious question he had was, where was he? Bracing himself with one hand against the wall, he shakily pushed himself to his feet, stepping out of his tangled blanket and seeing that there were even slippers on his feet. He walked over to the row of bars which faced nothing but a blank stone wall, and grabbed one of the bars with his right hand while resting his cast on a waist-level cross bar, leaning forward to maximize his sight line, but to little effect. To the left was nothing but more of the blank wall, stretching only far enough into the distance to accommodate three more cells like his, he supposed, and to the right, just at the corner of his own cell, was the corner of the hallway, turning and leading away behind him along the rightmost wall of his cell. The floor all around was simple concrete, and the space was lit by creamy-white glass lanterns set high into the walls. The air around him was dead quiet.

"Hello?" he called, his voice crackly with disuse. Clearing his throat, he swallowed and waited for an answer he didn't expect and was rewarded with ringing silence. He was alone.

He turned back to his cell, looking over its sparse furniture and realizing how much _better_ this was than anything he'd yet seen in captivity. A warmth of pained gratitude overtook him, and he leaned back against the bars, fully registering now how unspeakably _glad_ he was just to be unchained and clothed again.

He took a breath, as if to confirm the truth of it, and concluded that these new accommodations were not Azula's doing. He was in someone else's care now. Azula had gotten rid of him, just as she'd said she would.

He folded his arms across his stomach, trying to reassure himself of the reality of it, to grant himself a rare moment of unironic optimism, when the unfamiliar bulk of his cast against his hip drew his attention. He looked down at it, holding it in front of him, and prodded it with his right hand, doing what he could to disturb it and move it, but he couldn't shift it enough to cause pain to the broken bone. Wonderful, he thought, shaking his head in amazement. He'd been given quality medical attention. This was the work of a real physician, not some shoddy battlefield medic. Whoever he was with now took some pains to be professional and clinical, quite a far cry from anything Azula would have granted him. So he was safe now, out of that nightmare of a dungeon forever. He could be confident in that.

He stood quietly for a while, cradling his cast in his hand, staring unfocusedly into empty space as his thoughts turned heavy and uncomfortable. With a sudden shiver of disgust, he pulled himself away from the bars and returned to his mat, sitting down with his back against the wall, folding his arms across his knees and resting his head against them. Thinking logically, he knew it had been days, at least, since he was last in Azula's presence, but the memory of it was so vivid, and his level of consciousness since then so tenuous that it felt as if he had only just survived her mock execution last night. He was invaded with the memories of his own body jerking in her fist, his childlike weeping, begging to be left alone. The terror of death, the convulsive dry heaving.

He felt sick, a cold sweat pricking at his skin. He was consumed with the feeling of being at fault, guilty, dirty and betrayed. Sitting here now, he was surprised at how readily his throat tightened and eyes burned at the mere memory of it all. He lifted his head, nostrils flared, and blinked coldly at his room, swallowing once to enforce his control of himself.

_Stop it,_ he told himself. _Don't go there._

He let out a quivering breath and purposefully turned his attention back to his room, refocusing on the mystery of his change of fortune. He knew he'd been moved, not just from the dungeon but from the Earth Kingdom base entirely. The state of the infrastructure here was too permanent and too well-maintained to be a temporary outpost. From the decor alone, he could safely assume he was in the Fire Nation now, but where exactly he was hesitant to guess.

Scanning his scattered memories from the past few days, he wondered if he might be able to form a more complete theory, but his impressions were virtually useless. All he could recall were vague shapes of light and shadow, people without faces, hands moving him because he couldn't. He couldn't even accurately get an impression of how long it had been.

His unbroken wrist itched beneath the bandages, and he rubbed it against his knee. He thought how he would like to see the state of his burns now, then touched his chest, wondering at how little they hurt compared to the raw, aching mess Azula had left them in. But to see them, he would have to destroy the bandaging, and his desire to let them go on healing was greater than his desire to investigate.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. It was so quiet here. Strange, he thought, that there were so few cells, and no other prisoners. He wondered if this was some kind of quarantine bay. In any case, his isolation was somewhat disappointing, because he would have loved to have had another prisoner to talk to. Alone and deprived of all his belongings, there was simply _nothing to do_.

As such, with nothing to occupy him, it wasn't long before he felt drowsy again. Resigning himself and succumbing to his own exhaustion, he lay back down on his mat, pulling the blanket over him and feeling almost as though he could rest without end. Allowing his grip on consciousness to be weak, he lay there for a long time dozing.

After a long time, what could have easily been hours of solitude, Sokka once again became alert at the sound of two people coming up the hallway. He opened his eyes, distinguishing the separate sounds of the sharp click of a pair of boots and the smart padding of slippers.

Before he'd even lifted his head from the pillow, a man appeared on the other side of the bars at the corner of his cell. He was older, with slickly parted white hair and a number of wrinkles creasing his bronzed face, but there was still an air of youth and liveliness in his body. He wore a long black austere uniform and carried a doctor's satchel. At his shoulder appeared a stoic woman guard.

Sokka propped himself up cautiously, looking at him, and the man said, "You're awake. Good evening." Sokka didn't reply, but the man waited a moment before accepting his silence. "I'm just here to check on you," he continued formally. "If you cooperate, I won't have to call for more guards." He signaled to the woman to unlock the gate.

As the guard moved to the door, Sokka asked, "Who are you?"

"The prison doctor," the man answered.

"Which prison?"

The doctor met his eye. "You're in the palace," he said.

Sokka was taken aback by that, struck with a mild thrill of anxiety. That couldn't be.

"The _Fire Lord's_ palace?" he asked.

The doctor lifted an eyebrow tolerantly. "The _only_ palace," he said.

Sokka could think of nothing to say but merely stared at the doctor for a moment. The guard slid the gate open and stepped aside for the doctor. As the man entered his cell, Sokka raised another question:

"Do you _normally_ keep prisoners in the palace?"

"Only in rare circumstances," the doctor replied, setting his bag on the floor. "As you can see, we're not equipped to hold many." He gestured to the left, toward the other empty cells.

Sokka followed his hand distractedly, already getting lost in nervous thought. Why was he in the palace itself?

The doctor kneeled at Sokka's bedside and took a stethoscope from his bag. He held it up, as if to indicate his intentions, and asked Sokka simply, "May I?"

Sokka looked at the device and reluctantly sat up, nervous of the man but trusting his intentions. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Taking this as consent, the doctor put the ear buds into his ears and lifted the back of Sokka's shirt. The cold metal of the stethoscope touching his skin sent a ripple of goosebumps across Sokka's back. He waited patiently, if on edge, while the doctor listened to his breathing, and glanced up at the woman guard, who was watching disinterestedly from the gate.

"Are you in pain?" the doctor asked, moving the stethoscope across Sokka's back. Sokka shrugged a little but didn't elaborate. The doctor didn't press him but moved the stethoscope again. "Do you feel sick?" he asked.

Sokka shook his head slightly, answering, "No."

The doctor pulled his hand from Sokka's shirt and shifted to kneel in front of him. "That's good," he commented, gesturing for Sokka to sit up straighter then slipping his hand up Sokka's shirtfront, pressing the stethoscope against him just under his collarbone, above his bandages. He paused, listening closely for Sokka's heart. "Weak, I imagine?" he asked, turning his eyes to Sokka's face for a response. Sokka simply looked at him and shrugged again. The doctor nearly sighed.

"Yes, well," he said, removing his hand from Sokka's shirt and pulling the ear buds from his ears, "that's partly due to the sedation. It will wear off." He pulled his satchel to him and replaced the stethoscope inside. "The condition you were in when you first arrived here," he began to explain, then paused. "Well, you were very ill. If you had come any later, I'm not sure you would have recovered." He looked at Sokka soberly as if to emphasize his point. Then he reached forward and put his hand against Sokka's forehead, pausing only briefly before taking it away again. "But your fever finally broke yesterday morning, and I expected you'd be much improved today." He nodded slightly, seeming satisfied. "I'm glad to see you doing well."

The doctor rose and picked up his bag. "The Fire Lord has been waiting to see you," he said. "I'll tell him you'll be able to meet with him tonight."

Sokka's heart skipped, and he looked up sharply at the doctor. "What?" he asked. The doctor cocked his brow at him. "Why?"

The doctor took a breath and explained to him patiently, "For a debriefing, I imagine. You _are_ a member of the Avatar's party, yes? You couldn't have thought you would be held without questioning."

Sokka furrowed his brow but accepted this answer.

"The guards should come to collect you in a few hours," the doctor said. "I'll have someone bring you dinner before then."

The doctor stepped out of his cell, and as the woman guard turned the key in the lock, Sokka wondered why the Fire Lord _himself_ would want to see him. It was a moment before he realized he was letting the doctor escape.

"Wait," he said suddenly, and the pair stopped just as they were about to turn down the hall. "How long have I been out?" he asked.

The doctor looked at him and answered evenly, "Six days."

Sokka's eyes rounded slightly. It seemed a long time to be unconscious.

"Don't exert yourself," the doctor warned as farewell. "Just rest for now. I'll see you again in the morning."

And with that, the pair disappeared down the hall, and Sokka listened to their footsteps until they faded behind the sound of a door closing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was late in the evening when the guards came for Sokka. He stood calmly for the pair of them while they shackled his wrists in front of him in a tall pair of metal shackles, one cuff fitting just over his arm, above his wrist, to accommodate his cast. The cuffs were bound together by only three links of chain, severely limiting his mobility.

The guards led him down the dark hallway around the corner of his cell, up out of the basement, and down a few interior passages. The architecture around them was stately and businesslike, simple and unadorned. At the end of one hallway, they stopped, and one of the guards knocked on a heavy, wooden door but didn't wait for an answer before swinging the door inward and ushering Sokka, with the other guard, inside.

The room they stepped into was a large office and library, the walls paneled with dark wood and lined top to bottom with books and scrolls. The rows of bookshelves were punctuated with tall, narrow windows which blurred the radiant blue night sky through their decorative glasswork. On one half of the room stood a writing desk, backed by a tall, mountainous painting, and on the other, where Sokka and the guards stood, were arranged a few reading chairs. Here, in one corner of the bookshelves, holding a small book open in his hands, his eyes fixed on them, stood Fire Lord Ozai.

Sokka stared at him, half in analytical observation and half in intimidated wonder, struck by the significance of this encounter. This was Ozai, the single man for whom the entire world was at war.

Ozai closed his book and replaced it on the shelf, waving the guards off almost disinterestedly. He stood and regarded Sokka with composure as the guards bowed slightly and stepped out, closing the door behind them, the heavy thud reverberating through the room.

For a moment, Sokka and Ozai regarded each other in silence. Ozai was dressed simply for his position, in formal red-embroidered robes without accessory. His hair was loose but for a simple half-ponytail, long and dark, with a narrow, carefully trimmed goatee. Sokka was surprised to see how young he looked, glowing in the prime of his life, healthy and fit. Aware of his own deteriorated physique, Sokka suddenly felt self-conscious. He absently twisted his arms in his shackles.

"Welcome," Ozai said. Sokka said nothing. "Let's not waste any time, shall we? I know who you are, and there's only one thing I want to know from you: where is the Avatar?"

Sokka flexed his jaw, feeling compelled not to answer but conscious of the fact that there was no reason to stay silent. There was no information he could give. Ozai waited for his reply but seemed to understand his silence.

"You don't know," he said.

Sokka gave up his reticence, not wanting to draw this out longer than it had to be. "How could I?" he asked, his tone low and serious.

Ozai pressed him regardless. "They're your friends. You must know their plans."

"You and I both know they're on the run," Sokka said, showing all his cards at once, because there was no point playing coy. "There _are_ no plans."

"None at all?" Ozai insisted.

Sokka was already impatient with this line of questioning. "There is _nothing_ I can tell you," he said. "You're wasting your time."

Ozai seemed to accept this, and not merely with professional grace but with some element of satisfaction. He looked at Sokka with an expression that could only indicate a sort of respect. He seemed to appreciate Sokka's directness.

"How are you tolerating your imprisonment?" he asked, his tone becoming light, changing tacks. "Not clinging to any rescue fantasies, I hope."

Sokka narrowed his eyes. "They don't even know where I am," he said, and a dark shadow passed over his heart, because he was admitting it to himself for the first time as much as he was answering Ozai.

"But they might guess," Ozai suggested, and Sokka immediately resented being played this way.

"They wouldn't come anyway," he answered with finality. "At this point, it would be too dangerous, and a waste of resources."

He stood there defiantly, looking back at Ozai, swallowing once to sustain his resolve, and Ozai looked back, studying him with interest. After a moment, he smiled, seeming pleased with Sokka's answers.

"You're quite the pragmatist," he said. "And very intelligent. I'm impressed." Sokka sensed that he was actually sincere. But the calm change in Ozai's manner gave Sokka the impression that the Fire Lord was getting to his _real_ purpose now, and not knowing what to expect, Sokka's senses hummed with vague disquiet.

"When Azula sent you to me," Ozai said, crossing the room as he spoke so that Sokka had to turn in order to follow his movements, "her letter contained what amounts to glowing praise, coming from Azula. You are the only non-bender in the Avatar's party, yet _you_ are the one who organized the invasion on the Day of Black Sun. You are the one who executed the only successful escape in history from the Boiling Rock. And moreover, for having no bending skills whatsoever, you've somehow managed to fight alongside the _Avatar_ all this time, against even Azula herself, and still hold your own."

By now, Ozai's enthusiasm was virtually palpable, his growing appreciation evident in his body language, his sincerity.

He stopped near the door, and Sokka realized that Ozai had managed to position himself in such a way as to block the exit. Suddenly the room took on the atmosphere of having become a trap. Ozai said in a smooth and mild voice, "You have been a worthy adversary on the field. And I am very happy to have you here."

Sokka was uncomfortable. His body tingled with anxiety, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He and Ozai locked eyes, and Ozai seemed now far too familiar to be conducting a formal interrogation. Sokka suspected things were about to turn very bad. Then Ozai stepped closer.

Sokka thrilled unexpectedly with a wave of adrenaline, reactively taking a half-step back before freezing again, having caught himself too late, failing to stifle the impulse.

Ozai noticed this and chuckled a little as he closed the remaining distance between them. Sokka tensed at Ozai's intimate proximity.

"It's all right," Ozai cooed reasonably. But as Ozai lifted his hand, Sokka sensed there was real danger here, and he flinched back slightly as Ozai took hold of Sokka's shirtfront. "If you cooperate, I won't have to hurt you," Ozai said, and he pulled Sokka toward him, looking down into his face with a chilling smile. "I just want you to perform a little service for me."

Their faces were only a few inches apart now, and Sokka was unable to tear his gaze away from Ozai, his body going cold with a latent fear. Ozai seemed consumed with a gluttonous admiration, the color in his face slowly rising. When he next spoke, his voice was low, morphed into a husky growl.

"Suck my dick," he said.

At first, it was as if Sokka didn't understand him, all meaning in words suddenly incomprehensible. But as reality caught back up to him, his breath hardened in his throat, his heart pounding in the void behind his ribs. He nearly lost his balance.

He pulled back against Ozai's fist, a shiver going through him, staring into the face of the man and not believing this could be happening. But Ozai didn't let him go, instead stepping closer to him and bringing their bodies together. Sokka felt the tip of the Ozai's erection brush against his hand, and it was as if an alarm suddenly exploded to life in his head. Jarred into action with an appalled noise of distress, Sokka violently flinched away, tearing himself out of Ozai's grip.

_No,_ he thought. It was the only word he could think of.

The realization of what he'd been asked to do hit him like a battering ram to the chest. Every nerve in his body came alive, screaming at him, making the world seem unreal. He backed away from Ozai in a cloud of buzzing panic, and in only a few steps bumped into the desk behind him. He started, looking at it as if it were about to attack him, frozen in bewilderment.

Ozai approached him again, saying, "None of this, now. You're only delaying the inevitable."

Sokka flashed him a look, edging away from him, feeling like an animal in a cage. His chest was tight, his lungs empty, but even now he could see the inescapable truth of Ozai's words. The knowledge of it barreled through him like a suffocating wind. For every inch Ozai neared, Sokka backed away further, not letting him get close, his heart contracting in a dread so powerful it was like sickness.

Ozai's expression was no longer amused but hard and impatient. He reached forward, and when Sokka tried to dart away, Ozai caught him by the back of the collar and yanked him roughly back. Sokka shouted, trying to tug free, but Ozai snarled at him, "_Enough_," and slammed him facedown onto the desk.

Sokka barked in pain, a cascade of brushes and ink bottles clattering away from his impact. Ozai pinned him from behind, trapping Sokka's arms beneath his chest, the metal of the cuffs digging into his ribs. He struggled to get up, but Ozai was too strong and too heavy for him. Sokka's heart was pounding frantically, his pulse in his head seeming loud enough to deafen him. Squirming under the weight of Ozai's arms, the realization of his complete helplessness hit him hard. There was nothing he could do. He shouted, nearly crying, because this wasn't something he was capable of escaping. _This was going to happen._

The next moment, Ozai reached forward and took Sokka's head in his hands. Sokka gasped, not expecting this, and Ozai held him firmly down, his fingers forming a cage over Sokka's head, fanning out wide and digging into his scalp, covering his eyes and blinding him.

"Aaaanh!" Sokka cried, as much in confusion as in anger and pain, trying to lift his head, straining his neck against Ozai. But under the force of all that weight, he was useless. Ozai leaned down over him, covering his body with his own, and Sokka felt tears welling up in his eyes even beneath Ozai's fingertips. He could feel Ozai's erection pressing into his leg and couldn't even move to escape it. He whimpered, agonized, his spirit dying on the table.

There was a brief moment of stillness, of giving up, like dropping off a ledge, when Sokka had stopped struggling and Ozai had him encompassed, before Sokka noticed the warmth developing at his eyes. But once the sensation registered in his mind, he recognized what it was, and as quickly as the heat built up, so did his panic. Gasping in horror, he tried once more to push himself up, shouting "No!" and tossing his head to get away, but Ozai's grip was unshakable, and within moments, the heat at his eyes had intensified into a blinding pain.

Sokka forgot everything around him. Ozai's fingers dug into his eyelids, over his tear ducts, pouring heat like fire into his corneas. Sokka screamed, thrashing on the desk, and Ozai put all his weight forward, shoving Sokka's head down onto the table to keep him still. Sokka twisted aside, his cheekbone grinding against the writing surface, and cried uncontrollably, mad with the desire to escape the pain. Ozai flared the heat in his fingers to a level Sokka couldn't withstand, and he screamed shrilly, like glass breaking, for the sheer terror of having his eyes burnt out of his head.

But Ozai didn't maim him, stopping there and letting the heat die away without searing Sokka's skin. But the heat was so piercingly painful that, to Sokka, the difference was almost negligible. He lay on the desk, Ozai's hands still encasing him, half wailing, tears running down his face in hot rivulets, coursing around Ozai's fingers. Ozai said nothing, but his message was abundantly clear: he was _absolutely_ in control.

Without further show, Ozai released him and pulled him from the desk, turning him around and pushing him abruptly to his knees. Sokka blinked wildly at the pain in his eyes, vision red and watery and full of shooting lights. He hit the floor nearly as blind as if Ozai's hands had still been on him, but he could perceive enough to recognize the motion of Ozai opening his robes and exposing himself before Sokka's face.

Sokka fell back, whimpering, but Ozai reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, bringing him back and shoving his head backward against the desk. He bent and put his hands on Sokka's face, prying his mouth open and forcing himself in.

Sokka gagged, his eyes flooding and his face turned upward, Ozai's hands pressed hard into his cheeks to keep his teeth apart. The force of Ozai's body knocked him back against the desk, and he tried to reach for Ozai's wrists, but he was crowded out, his shackles limiting his maneuverability.

Ozai moved into him not with violence but with deliberation, and Sokka cried, choking and gagging, unable to pull away, unable even to keep his balance, shoved back awkwardly onto his heels, slipping against the desk. He clutched with both hands at Ozai's knee in an attempt to stay upright, struggling just to breathe, gasping through his nose in the brief moments he had an open air passage. Ozai slammed against the back of his throat, bruising and hurting him.

When at last Ozai came, Sokka gagged suddenly and loudly, choking on semen and heaving uncontrollably forward, coughing violently even as Ozai slipped prematurely from his mouth. Sokka lurched forward, bending double, a string of mucous smearing back across his cheek, and Ozai stepped back to give him room, taking himself into his own hand to finish. As Sokka hacked unceremoniously into the floor, bracing himself on his cuffed hands, white splashes of semen spattered the tile beside him.

In the aftermath, Ozai stood panting above him, and Sokka stayed buckled on the floor, shaking and trembling, unable even to lift his face. He spit, clearing his throat repeatedly, even as his mind seemed to be freezing up, going into shock. After a moment, Ozai stepped away, and Sokka unsteadily picked himself up, mechanically getting to his knees. He wiped his cheek on his shoulder, his vision dim and swimming, and when he looked up, Ozai was standing across the room, quietly retying his robes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka didn't resist being led back to his cell. When the guards came for him, he went where they nudged him, jaw locked, eyes unfocused, hands clasped together tightly to hide his shaking, bottling himself up like an explosive. He wouldn't look at them, couldn't bear to acknowledge with them what had just taken place. But he had no doubt they knew; at very least, there had been semen on the floor.

When they arrived again at his cell, he allowed them to remove his cuffs at the gate and then stepped rigidly inside as they latched the lock behind him. And there he remained, standing like stone until the last of their footsteps disappeared at the end of the hallway. After a moment, he took a single step toward his mat, but his legs gave out, and he stumbled forward.

His knees hit the mat hard and he caught himself clumsily against the wall, covering his mouth with his one good hand, staring into nothing, fighting back a wave of grief that seemed to wash through his body like a pounding waterfall.

_No!_ he scolded himself, commanding himself not to lose control. _Calm down. This is nothing. He didn't even _do_ anything to you._

But his mind revolted immediately against that, feeling the false justification, making him sick with dismay. He pinched his eyes shut, making a noise into his hand thick and shrill with distress, but he quickly locked his throat closed, refusing even to breathe, lest it fan the flame.

Sokka shook his head slowly, replaying the interrogation in his memory, unable to understand where it had gone wrong. Where had he slipped up?

But a sinking, collapsing feeling in his chest made him stop suddenly and scold himself again, _No! Stop thinking. You're safe now. You can deal with this. Calm down!_

But with his body screaming for breath, crumpled and quaking against the wall, his mind retaliated against him frantically, even as he tried to reason with it, and a single thought broke to the surface, like lightning ripping through cloud cover:

_I can't!_

And his diaphragm spasmed beyond his control, sucking in air through his constricted throat, breaking his hold on himself.

With a gasp like surprise, he cried into his hand, a broken-sounding muffled screech, and sunk further onto his knees, curling in on himself and falling into sobs which carried him long into the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sokka was awakened the next morning by a screech of metal which startled him into consciousness. He flinched, turning quickly over in his bed, half sitting up, heart racing, before realizing it was only the doctor opening his cell door.

"Relax," the doctor said to him, stepping inside and setting what appeared to be a small metal wastebasket in the center of the cell. The woman guard who'd accompanied him the night before entered just behind him and set a fresh meal tray in the corner near his water basin, then returned to the hallway and stood without facing them, her hands folded in her lap, waiting patiently.

Sokka was worn out and in no mood for company, but he sat upright in bed, squinting at the world, his eyes still puffy and hurting from the abuse of last night.

The doctor sat his bag down near the bed mat and kneeled before Sokka, bending forward a little to peer at him.

"What did you do to your eyes?" he asked irritably. Sokka blinked, shrugging, and leaned back against the wall, not up for a confrontation. He just felt...tired. The doctor shook his head and grumbled a little, rummaging in his bag for a moment before pulling out a small tube of ointment.

"Here," he said, uncapping the tube and reaching his empty hand for Sokka's face. Sokka flinched away, ducking as if he were about to be hit, and looked up at the doctor in surprise. The doctor scowled slightly.

"Come on now, hold still," he said, and reached again. He took Sokka's face and rested his fingertips against Sokka's eyebrow, pulling his lower eyelid down with his thumb. "Goodness, they're red through and through," he grumbled, then told Sokka to look up.

Sokka did as he was told, clenching his jaw as he did so, trying to cooperate though his eyes burned the more they were opened. The doctor balanced his other hand against Sokka's cheekbone, steadying himself with his pinky as he squeezed a strip of ointment into Sokka's eyelid.

The doctor released him, then turned Sokka's face with his hand, Sokka blinking at the goop already cooling and soothing the irritation, then repeated the procedure on Sokka's other side. When he was done, the doctor returned the tube of ointment to the bag, and Sokka peered foggily around his cell, everything seeming hazy and underwater through the ointment.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked, taking Sokka's bandaged wrist into his hands and prodding it gently.

Sokka swallowed, watching the doctor's hands. "Fine," he said, a bit croaky. The doctor took a pair of bandage scissors from his bag, one blade blunted at the tip to protect Sokka from being cut as it moved along his skin, and snipped away the bandage from Sokka's wrist, pulling back the gauze and revealing the brown-and-purple mottled bruises and the ring of scabbed skin from where he'd rubbed his wrist raw on Azula's shackles. The sight was ugly but greatly healed already.

"It looks all right," the doctor commented, reaching for the little wastebasket he'd brought and dropping the old bandages into it. "I think we can leave it alone now. Just don't pick at it." Sokka snorted. From his perspective, the issue of picking scabs was not a top concern.

But then the doctor said, "Now let's have a look at these burns," gesturing for Sokka to take his shirt off, and Sokka balked at him, a little taken aback. The doctor wrinkled his eyebrows at him. "What's the matter?"

Sokka didn't know what to say, he just didn't like the idea anymore of removing his clothes for a stranger. But the doctor seemed to have no patience for such insecurities. He gestured again, almost sighing. "Come on now, we have to change the bandages."

Sokka felt very uncooperative, but he knew there was no sense arguing. He understood the necessity of medicine and didn't want to begrudge a man who'd only come to help him. Slowly, he rose to his knees and reluctantly pulled his tunic over his head.

As the fabric came free of his body, the complete extent of his bandaging was revealed for the first time. Around his torso was a wide band of white gauze, wrapped across his pectorals, and layered under this, tucked up under his arm pit and running down his left side, ran a long vertical strip of similar dressing held in place by many cross strips of adhesive tape. Lifting his arms overhead made his side twinge a little where the skin stretched, but for the most part, his burns were remarkably painless.

Sokka lowered his crumpled shirt self-consciously to his knees, not looking at the doctor, and when the man moved closer, Sokka stiffened, ill at ease. But when the doctor presented his scissors, Sokka lifted his arm out of the way to grant him access to his side, and the doctor slipped the blade up under the lower edge of Sokka's chest wrapping, snipping carefully upward. When the wrapping was cut all the way through, the doctor slipped the gauze out from around Sokka's torso, pulling gently at the oozy spot on his chest where the moistened dressing clung a little to his burn. Sokka hissed as the cloth pulled away, looking down at the glistening pink disc of skin at the base of his sternum, nestled in the dip between his pectorals.

It was the first time he'd seen the burn in full light. The damaged skin was a bright, vivid pink, seeming almost to glow against the natural copper of his skin tone, speckled with spots and wisps of red where flecks of blood beaded or flowed too near the surface. The wound felt raw but oddly numb and shone with the residue of some kind of pearly ointment.

The doctor heaped the used bandages into the wastebasket, then sat a moment, watching him. "How does that feel?" he asked.

"Fine," Sokka said, idly touching the skin at edge of the burn and smearing a bit of ointment between his fingertips.

The doctor nodded. "Let's see this now," and he tapped the underside of Sokka's broken wrist to tell him to lift his arm. Sokka did so, holding his cast over his head as the doctor gently peeled strip after strip of adhesive tape from Sokka's side, pulling the dressing away as he did so, stinging him with the repeated tugging and causing him considerably more pain than he had with the burn on his chest. Sokka didn't object, however, but merely winced in silence as the doctor slowly exposed the vibrant pink stripe running all the way down his side.

When he got to Sokka's hip, however, the doctor paused, seeming at a loss, and stuck his finger into the waistband of Sokka's pants. Sokka pulled away, startled.

"You'll have to loosen these," the doctor said. The bandage continued on beneath the fabric.

Sokka just looked at him, unresponsive, and didn't immediately obey. The two of them stared at each other for a long moment.

"Well?" the doctor asked, holding the mess of stained bandages in one hand and tugging impatiently at Sokka's pant leg with the other. Sokka knocked his hand away and reared up a little to escape his reach.

"Let me do it," he said defensively, and the doctor huffed but waited.

Hesitantly, Sokka rose to his knees and carefully untied the drawstring at his belly, struggling to overcome the hindrance of his cast but determined to do this alone. Once he'd loosened the knot, he held the drawstrings in his good hand and ran his other thumb along through his waistband, loosening the pants only a little, then carefully pulled down the section at his hip just low enough to expose the remaining few inches of bandage. He would have liked to have removed the final adhesive strips himself, but with his cast, he simply wasn't dexterous enough to accomplish it on his own, so he was relegated to merely holding the fabric out of the way as the doctor tugged the rest of the bandage free from his skin. The angry mark Azula had left on him ended just at the crest of his thigh.

"Healing nicely," the doctor said nonchalantly, pressing experimentally on the skin at Sokka's ribs. Sokka twisted away from him a little, oversensitive to being touched, but the doctor seemed not to notice. He dropped the last of the used bandages into the wastebasket, saying, "A few more days of wrapping, I think, and then we'll reevaluate."

As the doctor rummaged again in his bag and Sokka sat there with his drawstrings in his hand, his pants half hanging off of him, he turned that over in his head. He remembered getting these burns—the smell of his own charred skin, the madness of pain. It seemed remarkable that after only a few days—little more than a week—they'd healed this much. They had been horrible burns, throbbing and raw. They should have taken _weeks_ to repair, not days.

The doctor soon found what he was looking for and sat back with his attention turned from Sokka, removing the lid from a metal tin and stirring up more of the pearly-colored goop with what seemed like a thin, metal spatula. Sokka rubbed again the ointment between his fingers, the texture of it creamy and slick like melted frosting.

"What is this stuff?" he asked.

"Flame balm," the doctor said, scooping some ointment out onto his spatula. "Made from the seeds of certain fire lilies, I believe. Nothing in the world is better for burns." He turned to Sokka, then noticed the concerned expression on his face, and seemed amused at his disbelief. "We're firebenders," he said. "We've learned how to treat our own injuries." The doctor motioned for Sokka to lift his arm again.

Sokka followed the doctor's instruction, keeping his cast overhead and out of the way as the doctor leaned forward to apply the ointment to his side. Sokka flared his nostrils and watched the bars composedly as the doctor slowly slathered his side, clear down to his hip, Sokka's skin crawling all the while. The gentle caress of the doctor's work made him deeply uncomfortable, but he set his jaw and behaved, exhaling with relief when the doctor at last left the spatula in the tin and set the tin on the floor. Having the vertical bandage re-applied was easier, though the constant prodding and taping left him irritable and anxious. When the dressing was once again fully applied and the doctor took his hands away, Sokka settled back on his heels, edgy but thrilled to be finally released, and retied his drawstrings quietly.

After that, it was only a matter of endurance to allow the application of fresh ointment to his chest and to let the doctor wrap new bandages around him, the doctor leaning in close to transfer the clean roll of gauze from one hand to the other around Sokka's torso, nearly hugging him in the process. Sokka merely sat stoic with his hands on his head, head bowed, eyes closed, waiting.

As the doctor tied the end of the bandage at Sokka's side, he said to him, "Now let's see your knee."

Sokka begrudgingly readjusted on his mat, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him, and attempted to roll up his pant leg. But his cast made him clumsy and inefficient, and soon the doctor shooed him away, saying, "Let me," and Sokka was forced to relent, leaning moodily back against the wall with his arms crossed, lifting his knee slightly to aid the doctor's work.

The doctor folded the pant leg up with practiced quickness and cut the bandage from Sokka's burnt knee in methodic silence, seeming content to redress the wound without uttering a word. But Sokka, now released from the agony of bodily closeness, felt his mind at work again and was itching to ask questions about the outside world and the friends he'd left behind to fight.

"So what's going on with the war?" he asked.

The doctor glanced up at him quizzically, then returned to re-wrapping his knee, saying, "I don't see why that ought to concern you."

Sokka frowned, feeling a swell of anger, somewhat startled at the shortness of his own fuse. He huffed, barely keeping himself in check. "I'm a _prisoner of war_," he said coldly. "What's going on out there is about the _only_ thing that concerns me anymore."

But despite his vehemence, the doctor said nothing.

"_Tell me_," Sokka pressed, aggravated. "You can even _gloat_ if you have to, I just want to know."

The doctor finished tying the bandage, then sat back on his heels, taking a breath and looking at Sokka for a moment, seeming to be trying to decide whether or not to speak. In the end, he bowed his head, shaking it a little as he turned to collect his things, and said, "As I said, I don't see the use of your worrying about that anymore. I have nothing more to say."

Sokka's heart ached as the doctor pushed himself up to stand. He took his satchel and the wastebasket in his hands, then added, "The balm should keep your pain down on its own. If not, tell the guard when he brings you your meals, and I'll have some medicine sent to you." With that, he turned to leave.

"Wait!" Sokka protested, resorting to desperation. "Why won't you just tell me? Did something happen? Is it bad?" His expression was forlorn and begging, but he could do nothing but watch helplessly as the doctor and guard filed silently away. He wanted to rush to the bars and call after them, _Just tell me if you've heard anything about my friends!_, but the hopeless futility of it crushed his spirit, and he was left sitting alone on his mat, listening to the distant thud of the door closing at the end of the hall.

Sokka groaned and put his face in his hands, frustrated by the pointlessness of his efforts and upset and confused with himself about why he couldn't even put up a decent fight.

Eventually, he took his hands from his face and looked tiredly over at the heap of his shirt still crumpled on the floor. After another moment, he reached languidly out and pulled it back to him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later in the day, Sokka stood moodily gripping his bars, leaning forward with his arms splayed, head hanging between his shoulders. All day long, he'd been turning over and over the memories of his encounter with Ozai, trying to reason it out, to find his fault, the place where the whole situation went wrong. But in the end, looking back, Ozai's motivations were simple: he'd only ever wanted the blowjob.

Sokka shivered with disgust. He had come to the conclusion that that was the whole reason he was being kept here. There was no other explanation. As a prisoner with no information or bartering value, Sokka could serve _no_ other purpose. If this wasn't what Ozai had always had in mind, as a permanent arrangement, there would be no reason to keep him here, to give him medical attention and a private, nearby cell, at hand and convenient. Everything, unfortunately, made perfect sense now.

Sokka rolled his head against his shoulder, eyes closed and taking a breath. The question was, then, what was he going to do about it?

The sound of the door opening at the end of the hallway interrupted his thoughts. Sokka stood up, listening to the footsteps approaching his cell, and stepped back from the bars as a single male guard stepped into view, bringing his dinner tray. Sokka looked at him and let out a breath, and the guard slid the tray into Sokka's cell through the grate near the floor of his bars. Their exchange was wordless and civil, and within moments, the guard had departed, and Sokka was alone again.

He glumly stared at his meal tray, rubbing his neck in distracted thought. Evening now. The predictable routine of the palace made it easy to keep track of time, at least. But it meant if Ozai was going to call on him tonight, it would be soon.

Sokka sat and tried for a while to pick at his meal, but he found he had no appetite. So, giving up, he crawled over to his mat and lay back with a _whump_, his arms overhead, dreading and waiting for the moment he would be summoned.

He didn't know what to do. Thinking of going back to Ozai twisted his stomach into a knot, but he didn't see any way out of it. He lay there and agonized, fantasizing of ways he might side-step his fate, avoid another meeting, or find some weakness in the system that would allow him to make a sudden escape. But it seemed that every fantasy he conjured up inevitably ran into failure. There was simply so little opportunity for creativity that he soon found himself resorting instead to mentally bracing himself for the worst. But that, in turn, made him sick to his stomach, and when he could no longer tolerate his empty rationalizations, he returned again to his fantasies. He lay a long time like this, battling back and forth, never actually able to calm his anxiety.

And yet, no one came. Sokka sat up, agitated, leaning against the wall and combing his hair back from his eyes. It must have been late by now. If no one had come for him yet, was it possible no one would? He rubbed his face. Almost against his will, a little sliver of hope crept into his chest. He tried to quash it with some rational pessimism, telling himself there was no way he wouldn't hear from Ozai again, and it would only make things worse if he allowed himself to believe otherwise. And not long after that, the hallway door opened again, and at the sound of two pairs of boots coming up the hall, Sokka grimly congratulated himself on refraining from being optimistic.

The guards called him to the gate of his cell, and when he merely stared at them and didn't come, they stepped in and jerked him roughly by the arm to lock him into his shackles. Sokka didn't fight them, merely watched in silence as the key turned at his wrist and then proceeded with them down the hallway as they led him away.

But as they crossed the threshold out of the basement, Sokka could already feel his heart rate picking up, his chest tightening. He clenched his jaw, trying to stave off the dread and fear, and watched the guard's feet in front of him as they walked, seeing nothing else, focused only on keeping his cool. So he noticed only belatedly that the route they were taking now was different from the night before.

He looked up. It seemed they were going to an entirely separate wing of the palace, well-removed from the one that housed the prison cells and office. The architecture here was much more ornamental, the decor more residential. They turned down a short corridor lined with tapestries and wide windows which looked out on the torch-lit palace grounds sweeping away before them, the sky inky black and expansive overhead.

In the middle of the hallway was a tall, ornately carved door, darkly lacquered. One of the guards knocked as warning, then opened the door and ushered Sokka inside alone. The room Sokka found himself in was a spacious sitting room, softly lit with flickering lanterns, and finely decorated. As he stepped awkwardly over the threshold, he caught a glimpse through a door standing partly open at the other end of the room of a dressing table and the foot of a grand bed. His stomach turned.

This, he imagined, was Ozai's private living suite. With his face twisted in a grimace of dismay, he turned his attention to the sofa on his right where Ozai lounged calmly in a black silk house robe. At Sokka's back, the guards closed the door again with a meaningful click.

Sokka felt suddenly weak. He wasn't prepared for this. He'd tried to be resolute, to steel himself against it, but it was just too much for him. His whole body felt unnaturally light and unresponsive. Looking at Ozai looking back at him, his mind felt as if it had shorted out. It suddenly hit him hard, the knowledge of what he was here to do and the realization that had _no choice_. The impotence was overwhelming; it was the most painful thing in the world.

Ozai said something, his tone light and friendly, but Sokka didn't hear what it was. He was too sickened by the feeling of his arms in his shackles, by the thought that he couldn't even move. He watched Ozai and saw his mouth moving without comprehending his words, noted how his posture was so relaxed and passive, and when he lifted a hand, beckoning Sokka over, he realized that Ozai had called his name.

Sokka looked at Ozai's hand, then back to his face, but refused to respond more than that.

Ozai wrinkled his brow a little, and his voice came through to Sokka again, reaching his ears as if after a delay, saying in a reasonable tone, "I don't want to fight you."

Sokka just frowned at him, utterly immovable. Ozai took a breath and lowered his hand, then rose from his seat and walked to Sokka. Sokka looked away as Ozai neared him, stifling a whine that threatened to break free from his throat, closing his eyes and tensing to his core but making no move to avoid him. He felt the change in air pressure that signaled Ozai's proximity and shuddered when the man's hand fell on his shoulder. Ozai stepped around behind him, an arm across his back, both hands on his shoulders, like a father comforting his son, and gently led Sokka forward toward the sofa.

Sokka moved only as much as was necessary to keep from falling, his face a mask of misery, allowing Ozai to puppeteer him into kneeling before the sofa. He sat there lifelessly with Ozai at his back, his shackled hands hanging between his legs, and Ozai rested a hand on the crown of Sokka's head, pausing there with their bodies pressed together. When Sokka felt a hard bulge against the back of his head, he bowed his head quickly forward, cringing, to get away.

Petting his hair fondly, Ozai stepped around to the front of Sokka again, returning to his seat on the sofa and baring himself without preamble. He waited a moment, as if curious to see whether Sokka would move on his own, and when he didn't, Ozai gave him a simple command to proceed.

But Sokka could do nothing but stare in immobile resignation at the object of the task Ozai had presented him with. So, without impatience, Ozai reached forward and cupped his hand behind Sokka's head, pulling him gently toward him. Sokka did whine this time, resisting his pull only feebly, cringing with disgust as Ozai touched himself to Sokka's un-parted lips.

Sokka breathed, fighting the urge to break down and cry, but after a few moments, knowing that it was pointless to keep resisting, he slowly, hesitantly, opened his mouth.

Ozai smiled, easing himself in, and gently brushed Sokka's hair from his face, pulling the strands away from his mouth where they had gotten caught in his saliva, and pushed it all delicately behind his ears. Sokka made a disgusted noise, breath held, face contorted, and braced his cuffed hands against the sofa between Ozai's legs. Doing his best not to gag, he closed his eyes and haltingly moved his head over Ozai. His hair, too short to stay behind his ears for long, fell back forward against his cheeks.

Ozai leaned back, leaving Sokka alone to work, and Sokka put all his focus on the thought that the sooner he could get this over with, the sooner he could leave. After a few minutes, Ozai started shifting in his seat a little and humming with pleasure.

When Ozai dropped his hand on top of Sokka's head, Sokka flinched, opening his eyes at the fear of being shoved down. But Ozai made no such move, merely resting his hand there, as if in encouragement. Sokka could see now that Ozai's head was thrown back, and in a moment, he lifted his hips from the sofa, groaned sharply, and came into Sokka's mouth.

Sokka gagged in surprise, immediately trying to back off, but Ozai quickly moved his hand to the back of Sokka's head and held him there in place, not letting him free until Ozai had finished.

By the time Ozai finally stilled, Sokka was nauseous with the strain of keeping his mouth closed, trying to contain the mucous which was already spilling out of the corners if his mouth. When Ozai let him go, he turned immediately to the side and spit unglamorously onto the floor, almost as if vomiting. He coughed and hacked and spit again, just to clear the mucous from his throat, and lifted his cuffs to wipe his mouth awkwardly on his knuckles, wanting to be clean of this and frustrated by the fact that he didn't have real use of his hands.

With Sokka preoccupied, Ozai muttered, "Excuse me for a moment," then rose, pushing himself up by Sokka's shoulder. Sokka shrunk from his touch and watched only out of the corner of his eye as Ozai disappeared into the bedroom at the end of the room. Shaking, Sokka pushed himself back from the mess he'd made on the floor, then turned to the sofa, longing for comfort, and leant with his forehead against the cushion.

When Ozai returned, he brought with him a hot, wet rag, which he handed to Sokka.

"Wipe your face," he said.

Sokka looked up, then took the towel and wiped his mouth silently, not looking at Ozai. He then did his best to clean his fingers of the sticky mess he'd coated them in.

"There's a wash room to clean up in, if you'd like," Ozai said, nodding toward the bedroom door. Sokka gripped the towel hard in his hand and didn't reply.

Ozai stood over him a while, as if expecting him to get up, but Sokka just sat there, hunched forward, trying not to be upset. Eventually Ozai left his side, saying, "As you wish. I'm ringing the bell now."

He went across the room and pulled a braided cord hanging near the bedroom door. Sokka, frightened by the idea of the guards finding him like this, forced himself to stand, unsteady though he was on his feet. It didn't matter how disturbed he felt; he would not be pulled from his knees like some broken victim. After a moment, he managed to drop the towel from his fist.

Sokka turned from the sofa and took a few steps toward the center of the room, eyes to the floor, scowling with sickness, and when the guards opened the door, he went numbly toward them, eager to leave. When one of the guards reached for his elbow, Sokka shrugged sharply away from him, snarling without looking at him, and proceeded into the hallway on his own. Without further fuss, the guards fell into step beside him and led him back to the basement.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

At his cell, Sokka stood in the gate while the guards removed his cuffs, then reached out and gripped a bar with one hand as the guards slid the gate back into place. He stood there, leaning against the bar, balancing himself and grounding himself, saying in his head,_You're safe now,_ as the guards departed and left him again in silence.

By the time he heard the door close, he was already repeating the same thing over and over in his head, a self-soothing script of, _You're safe now. It's all right. Calm down. You're safe now._

But a terrible, uncontrollable fury was churning inside him, and though he tried to mentally block it out, with a sudden crash of anguish, his thoughts betrayed him. _Safe?!_ he mocked himself. _You're not safe! This is waiting, knowing helplessness!_

Crying in inexpressible rage, he lashed out, lunging toward the wall and punching the stone, hurting himself, bloodying his knuckles. He dropped to his knees, bending forward and gripping his head, shaking. _You are not safe,_ he repeated. _This is not safety. There is nothing safe here._

A prisoner of war, he had called himself. But now, the word that pervaded his consciousness was a cold, vindictive accusation: _S__ex slave_.

Sokka wept, unable to keep it back any longer. This was so wrong. What had he done to bring this on? What did it mean about him?

A memory came into his mind of the last night he'd spent with Suki—the night Katara and Zuko had returned from finding his mother's killer, the night before Sokka's capture.

He and Suki had been in his tent. He had laid her down and leaned over her, put his knee between her thighs and his hands on either side of her head. At the time, it had felt right, but remembering it now, he doubted himself. He was frightened of the idea that he had done something wrong. He remembered that he had wanted to feel that she was _his_, that he could encircle her completely and contain her. Keep her. Pin her.

He felt sick. Thinking of it now, it seemed so _invasive_. How could he ever have thought that that was all right to do? Had he forced her without realizing? Had she felt unsafe? He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, groaning in distress. In that moment, he had meant no harm to her at all. He would never try to take advantage of her! The thought of Suki in distress—the thought of _him_ doing something to her—it was too painful to bear.

He was torturing himself. He was consumed with harsh, self-judging paranoia, but he needed to be sure. He needed to see the moment clearly. He stopped, forcing himself to recall the exact details of their encounter, her exact expression, the exact mood.

They had been clothed all the time. But they had been intimate. They had touched each other.

Suki had been on her back, her arms resting beside her, her hands near her face, near _his_ hands as he leaned over her. His hair had been loose, dangling at the edges of his vision as he looked down at her, and she had looked placidly back up at him.

She'd looked so relaxed and soft, giving him the impression that there was no tension in her body at all. Her cheeks had been pink with a slight flush, and when he'd smiled at her, she'd smiled back, small and understated but utterly content. Looking into her eyes, the rest of the world had seemed to fade out of his awareness, so much less important than her at the moment, and when her eyes creased slightly as her smile widened at him, he'd felt heat rising to his face, a rush of warmth in his chest, a swell of unbelievable affection which had made him think, _I love you_, without any kind of filter. He'd bent, then, and pressed his lips to her forehead, and Suki had closed her eyes, tilting her head back on an intake of breath like a sigh. Willing. Wanting.

On the floor of his cell, Sokka was hit with a powerful pang of grief. A sob boiled up to the top of his chest, and though he tried to contain it, it poured out of him anyway, rolling up out of his stomach and spilling into his mouth. The sound of it was low and strained, a wordless note of heartache, of incredible, crushing longing.

She had loved him, too. That had been her expression.

He leaned forward on one elbow, covering his eyes with his good hand and convulsing timidly on the floor. He felt so broken and alone, like a stone statue cracked through the middle and left discarded in a cold tomb. He wished that Suki was here, to hold him one more time, if only for a moment.

For the first time since his fall into captivity, the pain that Sokka felt the most was a haunting, echoing loneliness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning, the doctor and female guard returned to Sokka's cell, waking him with their footsteps. Sokka was too tired and miserable to care what they did to him, but as the doctor entered his cell, Sokka took the effort to at least sit up, slouching forward cross-legged with his blanket over his legs, not bothering to turn to face the man.

The doctor set his satchel down and kneeled beside it in the middle of the cell, watching him quietly. The guard, over his shoulder, set his breakfast tray on the floor near the gate, then stood up and uncharacteristically trained her eyes on him, too. As Sokka stared ahead at the spot where the far wall met the floor, the weight of a realization slowly settled over on him. The doctor knew. And the guard knew. They had always known. It seemed so obvious to him now. How had he not thought of it before?

He exhaled, feeling like a rock had just been dropped into his chest. As he and the doctor sat there in silence, the knowledge of Sokka's purpose here seemed to loom over them like a separate presence in the room. Sokka's eyebrow pinched into a self-pitying scowl. He felt like such a freak show.

The doctor spoke first. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Sokka wouldn't speak.

"How is your wrist?" the doctor asked, pointing mildly toward it. Sokka blandly lifted his hand, giving it to the doctor for inspection. The doctor rubbed his thumb over a fading bruise, pressing on a tender spot and hurting him, but Sokka made no reaction. The doctor paused, then released his wrist. After another moment, he said, "We can leave your bandages for today."

Sokka nodded a little, grateful for the consideration, and the doctor rose to his feet. But as he stepped out into the hall, as the guard put her hand on the gate to close it, Sokka interrupted, asking hoarsely, "Are there others?" He turned his head slightly, looking up at them, expressionless and tired.

The doctor paused and turned back to him. The guard looked at the doctor. The doctor shook his head a little and answered simply, "No."

Sokka waited, letting the answer settle in the air, then nodded once and turned his face back to the corner ahead of him. There was nothing more to say. The guard slid the gate closed, and the pair of them left.

Sokka sat motionless a long time, not caring to touch his breakfast, not even caring to lie back down. He was the only one, then, the only one Ozai kept.

His mind churned away at it. If Sokka was truly the only person Ozai used for sexual gratification, then Ozai's motivations weren't driven purely by sex. If they had been, he could have taken any number of concubines, and he would have had no use for a prisoner. So there was something more to it.

Sokka easily concluded it was merely the excitement of being able to subdue a prestigious enemy. It wasn't _lust_ Ozai was satisfying, but his megalomaniacal fantasies. He had chosen Sokka only because he was a member of Team Avatar.

But then again, there was something else, too. Sokka thought back to their last encounter, how Ozai had lounged so passively, wanting Sokka to take the initiative. Even despite his first show of force, Ozai had made it clear: he didn't want to fight for it. No doubt it wasn't the fight that excited him, but the _victory_. So it seemed his primary concern was not only that his victim be prestigious, but also that they be _easy_. Someone who would pose no threat, who would have no chance of making things difficult. Which meant, above all else, _no benders_.

Had it been Aang, Katara, or Toph, they would have simply been imprisoned, or killed. It was just _Sokka_ who fit the bill so nicely, _Sokka_ who couldn't defend himself, Sokka_,_ and no one else, whom Ozai wanted. Never before had he been so painfully aware—as Ozai had even pointed out on their very first meeting—that Sokka was the _only_ non-bender on Team Avatar.

He sank against the wall with a thud, sick to his stomach, having never felt so disgusting before in his life. Sluggishly, he lay back down, sliding against the wall, and then put his forehead against it when he landed, feeling nothing but heavy and depressed, like he wanted to pass out and think of nothing ever again. To disappear into oblivion.

He lay without moving for so long that he eventually fell back to sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Later, when the guards woke him, Sokka blinked groggily as he was hefted up and shackled, slowly coming to realize that he'd slept all day long, right through dinner, as if by sheer force of will.

With the night sky heavy and black in the windows, Sokka was deposited once again into Ozai's private sitting room. As the guards closed the door behind him, Sokka looked to Ozai, again in his silken house robe, who stepped up before him and stood with his arms folded across his chest, merely looking at him. Sokka looked back, expressionless and listless, and the moment stretched on. Finally, Ozai lifted a hand and touched the side of Sokka's face, running his thumb across his cheek. Sokka turned his head away from the touch but made no other move to fight it.

Ozai moved his fingers to cradle Sokka's chin and said simply, "I love this mouth of yours." Sokka flexed his jaw, unhappy.

Ozai took a step closer, dropping his hand and running it down Sokka's arm, taking Sokka by one cuffed wrist. He pulled Sokka's hands toward him and pressed his knuckles gently against his crotch. He was still soft and harmless beneath the fabric.

"I have an idea," he said. He watched Sokka a moment for a response but received none. Sokka's eyes were turned aside, refusing to look at him. "You're a good kid," Ozai continued, releasing Sokka's wrist. "A smart kid." He hooked one finger over the chain between the cuffs and tugged on it gently. "Let's get rid of these."

Sokka's heart turned in his chest, his eyes flickering out of focus for a moment as he registered the statement. _What?_ He flicked his eyes up to Ozai's face, and Ozai was looking at him calmly, half-smiling even, gauging Sokka's reaction. Sokka's heart rate ticked slightly faster. Remove the cuffs?

It occurred to him that if Ozai took away the one, final thing literally binding him in helplessness, Sokka would be free to fight back, to escape. A timid panic filled his chest. If that happened, how would he react? He couldn't possibly justify his cooperation if he were really free to run.

But Sokka's silence only communicated to Ozai a lack of objection, so he smiled, then stepped away from Sokka, going to a nearby table and picking up a key lying there. As Sokka watched him, his heart raced. He suddenly realized that this was going to happen, that his release was imminent, and it filled him with racing panic, his breath short, his jaw locked. He was afraid, he realized, to lose the chains. He didn't want to be released. He didn't want that pressure put on him. The prospect of freedom was unbelievably frightening.

But Ozai returned, unperturbed as ever, and Sokka watched intensely the key in his hand, eyes unblinking and wide. Ozai took Sokka's cuffs into his hands and unlocked one, then the other, with a soft click. He folded the key into his palm and with both hands slipped the shackles from Sokka's wrists. As the metal pulled free of his skin, Ozai looked up at him, but Sokka stayed still, eyes staring at his naked arms, still held in front of him, not knowing what to do. He glanced up at Ozai, catching his eye, and Ozai nodded once, pleased, then turned and unconcernedly made his way back to the table.

Sokka's eyes stayed locked on Ozai's retreating back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to make a break for it now, while he had the chance.

_Go_, he told to himself. _Go._ But he felt locked in place. He couldn't move. As he watched Ozai walk away, he couldn't even bring his eyes to _look_ toward the door, as if even that imperceptible movement would give him away, sound the alarm, get him caught.

He swallowed, face flushing, heart hammering in his throat. He hadn't even realized until this moment how _afraid_ he was of being caught, this petrifying panic of a failed escape attempt. He'd tried before, struggled against all odds for the smallest chance at freedom, but each time, it had only made everything worse. He'd been beaten, chained, tortured, neglected, and the thought now of being left alone once again to hang in the bleak darkness of Azula's dungeon shot through him like ice, left him shaking where he stood. As Ozai set the cuffs on the table, Sokka's throat constricted and knotted over painful, self-hating tears.

Ozai turned back to him, standing by the table, peaceful and smiling at Sokka's good behavior.

"Good boy," he crooned ironically.

He returned to Sokka and laid his hand on the back of Sokka's neck, making Sokka tense up, his eyes burning with tears. Why couldn't he run? What was he doing? He was appalled with himself, astounded, angry. Ozai rubbed the back of his neck, like a massage, and Sokka stared at him, red-faced, nostrils flared, saying nothing, afraid to even blink.

"It's so much better this way," Ozai assured him, and Sokka felt the first tear slip traitorously from his eye. Ozai took his hand from his neck and reached for Sokka's uncast hand instead, pulling him gently from his rooted spot by walking backward, leading him toward the sofa. Sokka, once moved, followed mechanically, his vision warped and flooded.

When they reached the edge of the sofa, Ozai dropped Sokka's hand and merely stood for a long moment, peering down at him from his greater height. Sokka, stubbornly, stared straight ahead into Ozai's collarbone, unmoving. Finally, Ozai sat, saying nothing but watching Sokka's face all the while. Moments passed.

"Kneel," Ozai said at last, very plainly and undemanding.

Sokka blinked, finally allowing his tears to fall freely from his eyes. He couldn't comprehend how he had allowed himself to get into this situation. But after a moment, reluctantly and jerkily as a rusted gear, he did as Ozai said, lowering himself to the floor with his hands on his thighs, his breath stalled in his lungs.

As Sokka came down, Ozai spread his knees to give him room to kneel and idly rubbed one hand over his groin, his erection tenting his robe now. Sokka clenched his fists and sat impassive, staring into the soft black fabric parted between Ozai's shins.

Ozai waited again before encouraging him with a gentle, "Come on."

Sokka swallowed, hands shaking, and miserably reached forward with his cast left hand, pinching the hem of Ozai's robe between his fingers and pulling it aside with as little involvement possible. The white of Ozai's bared thigh made Sokka shiver, but he continued, putting his right hand under the other half of Ozai's hem, not grasping it, but letting the fabric slip back over his knuckles, bunching up at his wrist, then lifting the panel away over Ozai's knee.

Sokka's arm brushed the bare skin of Ozai's leg, and he reactively moved to pull his hand back, but before he could, Ozai caught him around the wrist and held him in place. Sokka jumped and froze again, a new tear spilling from his eye. Ozai brought Sokka's hand slightly forward, directing him to where his erection now stood exposed, and held Sokka there gently until Sokka, of his own volition, gripped him in his fist. Ozai released him and leaned back, and Sokka scowled in misery.

He stared at his thumbnail, unable to proceed, the muscles of his neck jumping with bottled sobs. Ozai squirmed beneath his hand and took a long breath, urging him, "Go on."

Sokka sat shaking, battling every nerve in his body for the ability to get this over with. He leaned forward, nauseous, barely able to breath, but in the end did as Ozai wanted, disgusted and horrified to the core of his bones, crying quietly even as he did so, choking and hiccupping, utterly tortured with self-hatred.

When Ozai had finished, Sokka pulled away, spitting violently onto the floor, his whole body trembling with distress. Even as Ozai rose to go to the washroom, Sokka sat shaking with barely-restrained sobs, face splotched red and streaked with tears. He felt so worthless, so appalled with himself. He knew now that he would never escape this. There was nothing left to take from him if he would not even run when he'd been freed of his chains.

His throat weakened, and he coughed, a high-pitched, barking whimper, and unable to maintain his silence any longer, he crawled forward on his elbows, away from the sofa, hunched down, and wept dejectedly into the floor. It didn't even matter anymore whether Ozai saw him like this, whether anyone heard him crying. He simply couldn't contain it anymore.

He cried and cried until he was virtually exhausted, his voice hard and broken. His sobs gradually disintegrated into heartbroken moans and whimpers, interrupted only by the shaking breaths jumping in his throat. Sinking, he became nothing but a loose heap of limbs piled in the middle of the room, his hands lying open like dead insects, his head hanging on the floor. When he'd finally settled and quieted again, lying in heavy, dejected silence, Ozai returned to the room, stopping in the doorway behind him and saying nothing.

Sokka was aware of his presence but would not turn to see him. He instead stared into the wavy reflections in the polished stone near his face, the lantern light flickering innocently, peaceful and somehow comforting in its simple obliviousness.

"I'm glad you're cooperating," Ozai said from the door, his tone steady and not unkind. "This was never meant to be difficult."

Sokka's throat tightened, his anger and indignation flaring at Ozai's calmness. He was right: this was never supposed to have been this difficult. Sokka had been prepared, on some level, to become a prisoner of war. But this—_this_—he had not anticipated, could not have prepared for.

After another moment, Ozai asked, "Would you like me to let you be for the night?"

Sokka turned his face toward the floor, closing his eyes in irritation. Of _course_ he wanted to leave, but he wouldn't grant Ozai the satisfaction of a response. Ozai didn't move from the door.

"There's no shame in submitting to a superior enemy," he said, as if in some attempt at comfort. "It shows you've learned respect, acknowledged your place in the hierarchy. One will always be superior to another. That's the proper order of things. In life, in war. In here." Sokka's stomach clenched in sick anger. Ozai paused. "That's how it should be. That's why this war is already won."

Sokka opened his eyes, his patience worn through. He wrinkled his brow and broke his silence, his voice hoarse. "You haven't won."

Ozai hummed, seeming glad to have gotten Sokka speaking. "Well," he said, "maybe not yet. But the Fire Nation controls most of the world now, and the Avatar is in hiding, weaker than ever. His supporters are overrun, and his team is falling apart, right before my very eyes. Right here on my floor."

Sokka scowled in fury, glaring hatefully into the floor. Taking a breath, he pushed himself up, sitting with his back to Ozai. He wouldn't lie dejectedly on the floor for Ozai's amusement.

"You must see it," Ozai reasoned. "You are the first petal fallen from the dying flower. Every day, we come one step closer to the end—the Avatar's demise and my ultimate victory. At this stage, it will take little more than a wave of my hand to finally see his end."

Sokka felt the blood rushing to his head, pushed to anger far beyond caution or care. "It won't be that easy," he said. "When Aang comes for you, he's going to be more powerful than you could ever _imagine_ being." Gruesome images came into his mind of the most violent ways Ozai might be murdered. He relished the thought of seeing Ozai dead and gutted on the floor. "You won't even have a chance to _move_ before he kills you where you stand."

Ozai laughed at him.

"Oh, I doubt that," he said. "You seem to be forgetting one thing." His voice turned slick, and Sokka could virtually hear the grin on his lips: "You do intend to put an end to this before Sozin's Comet, don't you?"

Sokka's heart skipped a beat. He and the others had made a specific point of keeping their self-imposed deadline to themselves, trying to keep the Fire Nation from anticipating an attack. How could Ozai have known about it? Without even thinking, Sokka turned to look at him.

Ozai was leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom, his arms folded over his bare chest, having changed into a deep red pair of pajama pants and nothing else. He was smiling; he knew he had just dropped a bomb.

"There simply isn't _time_," he said. "Any day now, your friends will have to rush in every bit as beaten and disorganized as they are at this exact moment. And even _without_ the hundredfold power the comet will give me, it will be an easy kill."

Sokka stared at him, not knowing what to say. Every word Ozai said slammed against him like a stark offense, driving home the bitter point that Ozai had always known what they were trying to do, that _nothing_ had been secret from him.

But Ozai's self-assured smugness got under his skin, and soon Sokka's fury was burning in his throat again, his heart pounding in his head. He _hated_ Ozai, this cruel, arrogant, malicious man, standing there mocking him as if he were some naive kidnapee holding on to some idiotic, unassailable faith in his rescue. He couldn't _stand_ to let Ozai win this round. He wanted so badly to tear down this grandiose fantasy.

But he knew that he had only one weapon left, and it was weak, at best. It wasn't enough; it wouldn't change anything. But he had to use it, anyway.

"That's not going to happen," Sokka said slowly. Ozai looked at him with mild curiosity, readjusting his arms on his chest. Sokka knit his eyebrows, wanting his words to pull the earth right out from under Ozai's feet, but he knew that the one thing that would hurt Ozai most now was the one thing that hurt _Sokka_ most, too.

"They're _not_ coming before the comet," he said. "They're waiting, so that Aang can master the Avatar State."

Ozai's expression sobered slightly. There were tears in Sokka's eyes now, of hatred and dismay. He wanted to bore his gaze into Ozai, to let him know that there _was_ hope yet, that he _didn't_ have all of the pieces to the puzzle. But his chest felt as if it were collapsing. He turned away again, too upset and angry to keep looking at him, and put his fingers to his eyes, hatred turning to nauseous despair.

The comet would pass, so Ozai wouldn't be able to use it to overpower Aang. But that also meant that Ozai was safe for now, free to do as he pleased until then—and that Sokka would remain here, indefinitely.

Ozai made his way over to Sokka, his bare feet virtually silent on the tile, the rustle of his pant legs whispering softly as he crossed the room. His feet appeared at the corner of Sokka's vision, and Ozai crouched beside him.

The Fire Lord raked his hand forward through Sokka's hair, combing it back over Sokka's forehead and turning his face up to look at him. Sokka's throat was tight and his eyes wet, but he looked at Ozai stoically, full of defiance and pain. Ozai stared at him, his eyes rounded with new intensity, searching his face.

"Is that true?" he asked.

Sokka scowled and flared his nostrils, killing and suppressing a wave of pain, but that was confirmation enough. Ozai removed his hand from Sokka's head, sitting back on his heels and resting his arms on his knees, seeming to process this revelation. Sokka turned his eyes back to the floor, seething. They sat in silence for a while.

Then, without warning, Ozai grabbed him by the elbow and hefted him up to his feet. Sokka looked at Ozai's face and knew immediately that this meant another blowjob.

Sokka's heart sank. Ozai hooked him by the back of the neck, turned, and pulled him toward the sofa. Sokka moaned, grabbing onto Ozai's arm, a knot already aching in this throat. Why this all of a sudden? What had he missed?

Ozai shoved him toward the sofa, and Sokka stumbled onto it, knees hitting the cushions, catching himself by the backrest. He was so sick with dread already that he could barely move. He turned slowly back around, and Ozai stood before him, unhurriedly undoing the knot of his own drawstring, the bulge of his erection rising.

Sokka shifted away on the seat, shaking and shuddering with impotent fury, new tears coming into in his eyes. He sat wretchedly on one foot, but Ozai unexpectedly abandoned his drawstring and pushed Sokka backward by the shoulder, knocking him down, then slid one hand up Sokka's shirt.

Sokka jerked away, startled, pulling back onto one elbow and staring at Ozai wide-eyed. Ozai knelt over him, hovering in indecision, his hand on Sokka's hip. They locked eyes together in silence, and in the span of a heartbeat, Sokka's understanding began to build. But then the moment broke, and Ozai shoved him down onto the cushion, taking his face into his hands and kissing him hard. With the force of a beam breaking, Sokka registered the real danger he was in and made a noise of panic into Ozai's mouth. He tried to break away from the kiss, but Ozai forced him down harder.

Sokka shoved against him with all his might, tearing his face free and squeezing out from under him, falling clumsily onto the floor. He scrambled up and broke for the door, making it a total of three complete steps before Ozai arced a fire whip overhead and brought it cracking down in front of Sokka, making him yelp and jump back, shaking.

"Stop," Ozai said.

Sokka stood there trembling, staring at the wisp of smoke fading into the air ahead of him, and knew he was at an unfair disadvantage. Ozai was one of the most powerful firebenders in the world. And Sokka was an unarmed teenage boy with a broken hand. Besides which, Ozai was much bigger than he was, and much stronger. He physically overpowered him—easily. Sokka was frozen with the despair of this realization when Ozai grabbed him from behind, vice-gripping his arm.

Sokka shouted, wrestling to break loose, but was only flung around and knocked to his knees. As he tugged back against Ozai's grip, Ozai reached back with his other arm and brought his fist flying forward into Sokka's face, slamming against his cheekbone, sending him reeling backward to the floor.

Sokka rolled dumbly, mouth gaping, his hand over his eye, blinded by the impact, and Ozai dropped to his knees on top of him, straddling one leg, his hands at Sokka's waistband, untying and loosening the drawstring. Sokka protested, blindly kicking, knocking Ozai's hands away and pushing himself away from him, turning onto his stomach and scrambling to get back up as his vision edged back into focus. But Ozai caught him by the ankle and pulled him back, knocking him to the floor again. "No," Sokka cried, fingers dragging along the tile, and Ozai took a fistful of Sokka's hair and pulled him back up to his feet.

Sokka stumbled, wincing and gripping Ozai's arm, terrified. His pants now dangled from his hips, sagging at his feet so that he was walking on the hems. He managed to right himself just long enough to throw one good punch, landing it solidly in Ozai's ribs. Ozai barked, flinching away and losing his grip on Sokka's hair, but he retaliated by manhandling Sokka toward the bedroom door and throwing him against a stone wall.

Sokka shouted, careening forward off balance, and tried to shield himself with his arms, but the speed of the impact was too much. His elbow hit first, and then his head, cracking hard against the stone. His shoulder and the rest of his body followed, slammed with momentum, jarring all the bones of his skeleton. He crumpled to the floor, ringing with the collision, debilitated by a shock of pain that turned all his muscles to putty. He tried pointlessly to press his hands against the wall, to lift himself back up, but before he could recover, Ozai slung one arm around his chest and carried him into the bedroom, half-limp under his arm, feet dragging.

Ozai heaved him up onto the bed, pulled the slippers from his feet, and yanked his pants from him. Sokka cried, struggling, but was too dazed to coordinate himself. Ozai climbed up onto the bed with him and wrestled him out of his shirt, flinging it aside and shoving Sokka back onto the bed cover, naked now except for his bandages.

Ozai wedged his knees between Sokka's thighs, and Sokka flailed, wild-eyed, hitting him and trying to scoot away. But Ozai leaned a powerful hand down onto his chest and hit him across the face again, knocking his head aside, drawing a trickle of blood from his nose which dripped sideways across his face.

Sokka was stunned, immobile, and in the momentary stillness, Ozai reared up and freed himself from his own pants, tugging the waistband down just over his thighs, then took Sokka's wrists in his hands and lay down over him, pinning his arms above his head.

Sokka wriggled fruitlessly under Ozai's weight, vocal now and desperate. Ozai readjusted himself between Sokka's legs, working into position, and Sokka fought against him right up until the moment Ozai forced his way inside him, at which point the bolt of pain was so severe that Sokka could do nothing but cry out sharply, shocked and paralyzed. The surprise of pain was so intense it cleared his mind of anything else, wiping his consciousness and wracking his body.

Sokka's throat rattled with an incoherent cry. He gasped, choking on his own voice, delirious with agony. It _was_ surprising, how painful it was, a violent crowding, pushing, jolting, and abrading which tore at him and shot through him, back into his spine, up into his intestines.

Sokka had only barely comprehended the invasion, had barely recognized the rhythm Ozai had settled into, when one of the hands gripping his wrist suddenly gripped him by the throat instead. It startled him, making him gasp, but as the fist closed over his trachea, he cried out, and the sound was pinched into a rasping screech, then silence.

Seeming driven by little more than mechanical curiosity, Ozai took Sokka's neck in both hands, propping himself up and strangling him. Sokka gaped wide-eyed, clawing at Ozai's hands as blood and panic filled his head, trying but unable to suck even a sliver of air through his throat. But once Ozai had subdued him, the man turned his attention away from him, bending his head and moving into him with disregard.

Sokka cried in silence, craning his neck, his fingernails digging into his own skin, straining his lungs with all his might, but to no effect. In time, not being able to breathe made the world feel surreally silent, the image of Ozai's contorted face over him, the gleam of his sweat, somehow not connected to the disembodied grunting and shuffing of the bed. Blackness began creeping in on the edges of Sokka's vision, and his struggling became sloppier, more helpless and unbalanced, his body jostled on the mattress beneath Ozai's, muddled with pain and suffocation. He was losing his sense of clarity, of consciousness, his body going insane.

But then, the buffeting terror and pain plowing through him warped under the influence of a new sensation, something foreign and unwelcome, a mounting pressure between his legs, and a sudden tidal wave rushed through him, ejecting from him, hot liquid falling onto his stomach. His back arched.

It was then that Ozai let him go. Air rushed back into Sokka's body, screaming down his throat and pooling inside him, blinding him with oxygen. He gasped for air and shrieked in agony, the sudden onslaught making him lose control, his body releasing all at once, death-like in climax, semen squirting from him. He writhed on the bed, pulling at the sheets above his head as if trying to get away from the intensity. But Ozai gripped his thighs, holding him close, not finished himself, driving electricity into him against his will. Sokka spasmed and twitched, the intense pain of invasion fusing now with intoxication, destroying his grip on reality. It was as if nothing else existed, only this raw sensation, frightening and overwhelming, mind-destroying.

When at last Ozai released him and pulled away, Sokka writhed back on the sheets, pushing his heels against the blankets and wheezing at the ceiling, abandoned. Blood streaked from his nose across his cheek, and there was phlegm in his throat. He moaned hoarsely, like a long, drawn-out sob, his head rolling back, his entire body throbbing and twitching with pain. He felt the cool wetness of tears smeared across his face and neck, but he hadn't been aware of crying.

After a few moments, Ozai threw his pants back to him, the fabric draping over his trembling legs. He told Sokka to get dressed, and he would have the guards bring him back to his cell.

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End of chapter three.


End file.
